


A Lousy Christmas and a Crappy New Year

by HildegardtheB



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Existential Angst, F/M, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Mistaken Identity, Stupid Christmas, Why Did I Write This?, cheesy christmas tropes, holidays are the worst, i swore i wouldn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21883369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HildegardtheB/pseuds/HildegardtheB
Summary: For Jaime Lannister, Christmas is the worst -- the absolute worst.  Until one truly terrible Christmas Eve when it isn’t anymore.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 230
Kudos: 365





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be a cute, happy, little one shot. Something sweet and light for the holidays. However, I am apparently incapable of writing sweet and light when there is the option of writing angsty feelings. So here -- have a shortish, multi-chapter story of mistaken identity and lonely, damaged people and fucked up families, and -- oh, did I mention angsty feelings? Lol, at least it’s not a lump of coal. 
> 
> Note: I’ve mixed up worlds here in this modern AU -- so Christmas does, in fact, exist (I know, I know, but it’s so much easier). Also, I’m shamelessly appropriating the infamous holiday toast from "Friends" for the title. Happy Christmas to   
> me. ; )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Jaime has a certifiably horrible Christmas Eve and is mistaken for someone else.

“Happy fucking Christmas,” Jaime Lannister thought to himself, pulling his suit jacket tightly across his chest in a futile attempt to keep the biting wind at bay. It wasn’t quite five o’clock, but the pale, winter sun had already started to set, and a cold darkness was slowly seeping in from the shadows, the chill settling in Jaime’s bones and setting his teeth on edge. He could smell a faint sharpness in the air -- the ominous portent of an approaching storm. Shivering, he hunched his shoulders, trying to keep the cold off of his neck, and increased his pace in the vague hope that he could make it back to his flat before the skies opened up. If only he had remembered to grab his coat and his car keys before storming out of his sister’s house, he wouldn’t be in this godforsaken predicament. But by the time Jaime had realised his mistake, he had already been half-way through his dramatic exit. And at that point, nothing could have compelled him to turn around and face Cersei again -- not even the prospect of being warm and dry.

His shoe caught on the uneven pavement, and Jaime came to an abrupt stop, wincing at the burning pain in his heel. His Ferragamo dress shoes were quite literally rubbing a hole in the back of his foot. The shoes, although gorgeously hand-crafted, were not, in fact, made for walking. However, Jaime’s phone was currently sitting in his coat pocket back at his sister’s house (along with his keys and wallet), so the option of calling for a car to take him across town to his flat was out. No, Jaime realised with a sigh, it was just him, his well-cut but extremely thin suit jacket, his brand new Ferragamos, and very long walk in the very wretched cold. Grimacing, Jaime bent down and adjusted his sock which was already wet with something -- blood maybe? Fabulous. What a wonderful Christmas Eve.

Jaime had known that the holidays would be disastrous. Of course they would be disastrous. In the Lannister family, Christmas had always been an utter and complete shitshow. So why should this year be any different? In fact, when Cersei had first invited Jaime to her annual Baratheon Christmas Fête, Jaime had laughed in her face. He knew exactly how the stupid party would play out. Robert, Cersei’s husband, would get drunk and then behave inappropriately with every member of the catering staff he could get his fat, ruddy paws on. Cersei would get drunk and then publicly humiliate Robert and whomever else happened to be within striking distance. Tywin, Jaime’s father, would not get drunk. But he would watch all this happen and then blame Jaime for: a) not keeping his sister in check, b) not living up to his Lannister name and reputation, and c) not being married with children and ready to assume the vast “head of household” duties once Tywin ultimately passed from this earth into the great beyond. Jaime would then make a scathing remark about how Tywin would never truly die since he was, in fact, a member of the undead already. And then, in the pièce de résistance of the whole bloody evening, Tywin would disinherit Jaime -- for the millionth fucking time.

Oh no, Jaime knew exactly how the whole affair would go down, and there was no sodding way he was going to be a part of it.

But then Cersei had mentioned that Tyrion might show up to the fête, and Jaime… well, Jaime had caved, hadn’t he?

Jaime hadn’t seen Tyrion for going on two years; and he missed his little brother acutely. Although there was a seven-year age difference between Jaime and Tyrion, the two had always been close -- ever since Tyrion’s infancy when the imposing, Ironborn night nurse, tired of Tyrion’s squalling, had shoved the colicky newborn into Jaime’s arms and had gone out to have a cigarette or twelve. Once in Jaime’s embrace, Tyrion had instantly quieted, looking up at his big brother with mismatched, trusting eyes. And for the first time in his life, Jaime had felt wanted. Really wanted.

Ever since then, it had been Jaime and Tyrion against the world. Honestly, Tyrion was the only person in Jaime’s fucked-up family whom Jaime trusted implicitly. Oh, despite their faults and their charmingly understated toxicity, Jaime loved his father and his twin sister. However, he didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them. No, it was Tyrion to whom Jaime turned when he was wracked with self-doubt. It was Tyrion who talked Jaime down off the ledge after one of Cersei’s venomous attacks. It was Tyrion who took Jaime’s side when Father laid into him and called him stupid and useless. So when Tyrion disappeared without even saying goodbye, Jaime found himself in very real mourning.

And Tyrion had, for lack of a better word, disappeared. Gone without a trace. When Jaime had finally overcome his initial anger at Tyrion’s departure, he had tried to discover the reason why Tyrion had left King’s Landing so suddenly. Tywin had vaguely intimated that Tyrion had left to travel; but that made no sense at all. Tyrion hadn’t said anything about traveling to Jaime. And there was no way Tyrion would have left for any extended period of time without saying goodbye. Add to that the fact that he was no longer answering his phone or his email, and the whole thing was highly suspicious.

However, no one else in the family seemed to be worried. Jaime’s father had waved it off as another of Tyrion’s ridiculous schemes -- like the time he had run away as a child and tried to join a traveling circus. Cersei couldn’t be bothered to care. She had never gotten along with Tyrion anyway. No great loss if he disappeared for a few years. But Jaime was heartsick. He missed Tyrion. He missed Tyrion badly. He was desperate for any word from his little brother. So desperate, in fact, that Jaime was apparently willing to sacrifice his good sense for the slight chance of seeing him.

Yes, when Cersei had mentioned that Tyrion was coming to the Baratheon Christmas Fête, Jaime should have been suspicious. But he wasn’t known as the stupidest Lannister for nothing. So he had gamely gone to the hideously lavish holiday bash. He had gamely choked down the revolting, signature peppermint martinis and made small talk with the obsequious Freys. He had gamely forced a smile at Robert’s sexist jokes and pretended to be interested in Renly Baratheon’s hyperbolic stories about his trip to Dorne with his most recent boyfriend. Hell, Jaime had even gamely stood by and watched his sister knock back cup after cup of potent, mulled wine until the careful, public filter that usually kept her cruelty in check was shattered to dust. He had done all that on the thin hope that he would get to see his little brother. And it had been worth it for the chance of seeing Tyrion -- right up until the moment that Cersei, cruelty filter long gone, had publicly called out Jaime for being so gullible and told him that: _no, of course, Tyrion wasn’t coming. He had never planned on coming. In fact, she had no idea where “the creepy, little imp” even was. However, she knew that Jaime wouldn’t come to the party unless she made up some ridiculous cover story to get him there. And he needn’t bother complaining about it to Father. Father had given her the go ahead to use Tyrion as bait, since Jaime was being such a ridiculous prat and ruining the family’s public image by sulking about his stupid baby brother who obviously didn’t give a good goddamn about Jaime because he had left without even saying goodbye. And god, it was painful to see Jaime acting so stupid about the whole thing. Why Father didn’t write-off Jaime the way he had written-off Tyrion, she couldn’t even begin to fathom. It was too bad that Father had such a medievally sexist world view -- too bad that she hadn’t been born a boy. She had more common sense, family loyalty, and strength of character than her two brothers combined. She should be Father’s rightful heir -- not dumb and dumber -- the drunk and the fool -- the imp and the idiot. All she was missing was a cock -- although, considering Jaime’s tendency towards crippling emotional break-downs and downright PMS, perhaps a cock wasn’t needed after all ..._ And then Jaime had lost it -- creating his own public spectacle in front of God and nation (and a smugly smiling Varys in a fucking snowman jumper), before storming out into the cold, sans his coat and car keys.

The whole thing was a horribly humiliating mess -- or, as they called it in the Lannister family: a typical Christmas Eve.

Jaime shook his head to rid himself of the vile memory. God, the sooner the holidays were over, the better for everyone.

A car rumbled past, and Jaime looked up, finally noticing that the affluence of Cersei and Robert’s neighbourhood had long ago given way to bleak impoverishment. Gone were the beautifully manicured gardens and carefully maintained houses. The streets in this section of King’s Landing could barely even be called streets with how badly they were in need of repair. The buildings were cramped, crowding in on each other tightly like bad teeth in a too-small mouth -- every other shopfront unoccupied or closed off with sheets of plywood. Occasionally Christmas lights flashed from a widow or an odd wreath of synthetic greenery marked the door of a shop or a restaurant, but the street was mostly flat and gray -- which ultimately suited Jaime’s mood better than the gaudy, celebratory displays of Cersei and her neighbours.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime noticed a crumbling church, the faded letters of its marquee sloppily spelling out the message: “May the magic of Christmas bring love and peace to you and to the world.”

“Hah!” he thought bitterly. The magic of Christmas! Fuck’s sake! When were people going to finally realise that Christmas was just about the least loving, least peaceful, and least magical time of the year? Next year he should go away -- go very far away -- to where they didn’t even acknowledge the sodding holiday. Maybe he should just disappear like Tyrion had.

“Bloody hell!” a crash came from across the street; and, startled, Jaime turned to see a youngish boy staring dolefully down at a broken box, its brightly coloured contents scattered across the pavement and rolling into the street. The boy was precariously balancing another box on his left hip, and three more boxes were lying on the pavement next to him.

Jaime frowned in sympathy and made a move to continue on. However, before he could, the boy looked up and caught Jaime’s eye.

“Mind your business and steady on,” Jaime thought to himself, slightly increasing his pace, trying not to stare. He needed to look away before it was too late, and he was stuck helping a stranger pick up … well, what was it? … trash, perhaps? Gaudy Christmas decorations? Plastic waste from a Lego factory?

Before he could avert his gaze, however, the boy gave Jaime a sheepish smile, and Jaime groaned. Argh, too late! He couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t seen the lad drop the box now. No, Jaime was going to have to go and offer aid to the boy or come off as a right git on Christmas fucking Eve. Wonderful. This night just kept getting better and better.

Sighing plaintively at the unfairness of it all, Jaime looked cautiously down the road before hobbling across the street. Was it too dramatic to wish for a quick death at the hands of lorry driver? Anything to put him out of his misery and stop his blood from freezing in his veins. God, his feet were bloody well killing him too. Perhaps there was an extra pair of shoes in the garishly coloured rubbish the boy had spilled.

By the time Jaime had crossed the street, the boy was on his hands and knees collecting the cheaply made ornaments and Christmas baubles and jamming them back into the box.

Jaime bent to help him.

“Th..thanks,” the boy stuttered, looking at Jaime gratefully. “I don’t know what happened. It just slipped out of my hand. It’s so cold, my fingers are frozen.”

Jaime just nodded and continued to silently gather the Christmas detritus. Up close, the boy was older than Jaime had initially thought, although his soft features and tattered clothing made him seem younger. He had that starved, pale cast to him that made Jaime suddenly think of Tyrion. And before he could think the better of it, Jaime found himself offering further assistance. “Do you need help carrying these boxes inside?”

“Ah, cheers,” the boy said, relief colouring his features. “That’d be great, yeah.”

“No problem at all,” Jaime said graciously. It would delay him, but it would be good to get out of the cold for a brief moment. Perhaps his fingers would regain feeling. Perhaps someone inside would offer him a cup of something hot.

The boy reached over and handed Jaime one of the dust covered boxes. “Are you sure you’ve got the time?” he said, suddenly apprehensive. “I’d hate to keep you from your holiday party.” He glanced at Jaime’s attire. “Dirty work, this. And it is Christmas Eve.”

“You’re not keeping me from anything,” Jaime replied curtly, now completely consumed with the prospect of a hot drink. “I’ve actually just come from a Christmas party. And believe me, I’d much rather carry boxes in the cold than swill terrible, Christmas cocktails with pretentious toffs who care more about their clothes than the right shit that comes out of their mouths.”

The boy’s expression suddenly lit up, as if he had only just realised something. “Oh, are you here from the Christmas party on the hill?” he asked eagerly. “The big Baratheon bash?”

Jaime frowned puzzled. “Yes.” How did the boy know about Cersei’s Christmas party? With his dirty jeans and tattered jacket, the boy looked like he didn’t have two stags to rub together. Not quite one of the posh bootlicks one would expect to see at any of Cersei’s pompous soirèes.

“Right on! We’ve been expecting you. God, she’ll be so happy to see you.”

“She will?” Jaime questioned, suddenly feeling like he had stepped into an alternate dimension -- one in which he did good deeds and people were happy to see him.

“God, yes. She’s been wondering where you were.” The boy lowered his voice. “Honestly, you couldn’t have come at a better time. She’s a bit … uh, unhinged at the moment.” He grimaced, his eyes apprehensive. “Only -- don’t tell her I said that.”

“No, of course not,” Jaime frowned. Who could the boy possibly be referring to? Jaime could think of quite a few people who fit the “unhinged” bit (his sister being first and foremost) but not many who would be happy to see him. However before Jaime could ask for clarification, the boy stepped through the double doors into the dimly lit, musty building.

Following him, Jaime was immediately struck with an acrid smell -- a combination of dust, mold, and a sharp, antiseptic odour that Jaime couldn’t quite place. He frowned, wrinkling his nose. However, smell aside, it was gloriously warm inside the building. He sighed, letting the wall of heat slowly relax his bunched muscles.

The doorway led into a large, square room, which was relatively empty aside from a chaotic jumble in its center. In the middle of the room, a huge fir tree lay on its side looking like a soldier fallen in battle. A tower of cardboard boxes marked “tree” surrounded it. And in the corner of the room, a twisted pile of coloured Christmas lights were blinking sadly -- intermittently illuminating the cracked plaster of the walls with their artificial brightness.

Jamie paused, perplexed. He had thought he had seen the worst that Christmas had to offer when he had first set eyes on Cersei’s homage to her Lannister heritage -- a horrible, blood-red, synthetic Christmas tree decorated with grotesque golden lion ornaments all in various stages of roaring. However this room, with its tragic Christmas tableau set in the middle of what looked vaguely like the kill room of a slaughterhouse was giving Cersei a very real run for her money. He turned to ask the boy what this sad building actually was. However before Jamie could open his mouth, the boy turned and ducked his head toward a doorway.

“She’s just in here a bit. Follow me.” He lead Jaime through a darkly twisting hallway. “Brienne!” the boy called. “I have the boxes from Mr. Stark. Where do you want them?”

“In here, Pod!” a voice called out.

Pod nodded to Jaime and slipped into the open doorway.

Jaime followed, curious to see this unhinged woman who was apparently expecting him.

She turned when they entered, and Jaime was momentarily struck still. The woman was tall -- insanely tall. Taller than Jaime, and Jaime was not a short man by any measure. She was dressed in ripped jeans, an old, blue, KLU jumper, and battered trainers. And she looked, Jaime thought assessing her critically, like she could very well take him in a fight -- easily.

As if sensing his glance, the woman caught Jaime’s eye and tilted her head, a messy shock of white blonde hair falling into her eyes.

The boy set the boxes he was carrying down with a thump and then reached out to take the ones from Jaime’s arms. “There’s a whole pile of them,” he explained, and the tall woman turned her attention back to him. “Mr. Stark wasn’t sure what you would need, and Mrs. Stark was tending to the little ones so he couldn’t ask her. He made me take everything, just in case.”

“Thanks, Pod,” the giantess said, her smile tired and harried. “We’ll sort through them and figure out what we need. You can just put them in here for now.” She gestured to an empty corner of the room, the carpet stained and fraying. Finally, she turned back again to Jaime. “And who is this?”

The boy shrugged, already on his way back outside to finish unloading the truck. At the woman’s question, he turned to Jaime and gave him an inquisitive look. “Dunno exactly. Came from the Christmas Party up on the hill. Thought he was the one you were talking about earlier.” And with a last glance at Jaime and a mumbled, “Cheers, mate,” the boy left Jaime alone with the woman.

The woman cocked her head and frowned, gazing at Jaime quizzically. He watched her eyes widen, as she took in his impeccably tailored suit, his expensive haircut, his handsome face.

Not a stranger to being checked-out by women, Jaime gave her his most charming smile, his eyes twinkling rakishly. She wasn’t what he usually went for, but she was remarkably tall and her legs did go on for days. He cocked an eyebrow. “Hiya,” he purred.

At that, the woman snorted out a laugh and shook her head. “Let me guess. Renly couldn’t be arsed to come tonight, so he sent you in his stead.”

Jaime’s cocksure smile faltered, his mouth dropping open to gape at her in disbelief. Renly? Renly Baratheon? He had just left Renly at the stupid Baratheon Christmas party drunk off of his ass on wassail and sloppily making out with Loras behind the crèche of the life-sized nativity scene which Cersei had set up in the ostentatiously enormous ballroom (no room at the Inn, his ass). Surely Renly wasn’t supposed to be here at this … well, this place that looked very much like it could double as a crime scene. What was going on? And who was this ludicrously giant woman who seemed to be laughing at him? Laughing at him?!

Taking in his frowning silence, the woman gave him an apologetic smile. “No worries,” she said gently, her voice soothing. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like you are not wanted.” She gave him a reassuring nod. “You are wanted -- desperately wanted.”

Jaime’s grin was back at that, but the woman hardly noticed. “Frankly, I don’t know how we’re going to pull this off now that Robb and Jeyne have called in sick,” she continued, looking around at the boxes littering the room. Suddenly she glanced at Jaime’s attire frowning. She stepped forward, reaching out one long finger to skim over the lapel of his suit jacket.

Jaime startled, involuntarily stepping back, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m a bit concerned about you ruining your clothes, though. Bloody Renly didn’t warn you that you’d be working in the kitchen did he?”

“Well, no,” Jaime sputtered. Shit. He should end this now. Explain that he had no idea what any of this was and that Renly had, in fact, not sent him. And that the last thing he wanted to do after the day that he had just had was to work in a bloody kitchen in a building that was giving him major flashbacks to that decaying hostel in Essos that he had stayed in when he was twenty-one and on the tail end of a very bad drug trip. However, the giantess had now latched on to his arm and was deftly shepherding him into what appeared to be a kitchen. And then she was rifling through drawers trying to find him an apron and gesturing at him to take off his suit jacket. And then, without giving it a second thought, Jaime was taking off said suit jacket. And then she was putting the apron on him and reaching around him, her body entirely too close to his, to tie the ties, and Jaime was frozen in place and just taking it all in -- the smell of roasted meat and something savory, and the laughter from the corner where two young girls were chopping vegetables, and the flickering of the fluorescent tube lights that gave the room a slightly murderous glow, and the woman’s hands, warm and firm and occasionally brushing his lower back, as she tied his apron strings. His apron strings? Hell, Jaime didn’t wear aprons. And he certainly didn’t work in kitchens. And there was no fucking way he was a friend of Renly Baratheon. And he needed to say something before ...

“I’m sorry. I never caught your name.”

Jaime shook himself out of his reverie, looking up into the woman’s startling blue eyes. Jesus Christ they were blue! Was it her jumper making them so blue? “Uh … Jaime. My name’s Jaime.”

“Jaime,” she nodded, extending her hand out to him. “I’m Brienne.” She smiled. “God, I am so glad that you are here. I was fearing the worst before you came.” She ran a hand over her face tiredly.

“You know this is my first year running things. Cat usually does it. Only this year, her little ones are all sick with the flu and so she’s asked me. I, of course, told her no because I am not a masochist. But then she put Rickon on the phone -- he’s her youngest -- and had him appeal to me in his little, feverishly hoarse voice. And god, I am just a giant sucker for children and animals and …” She shook her head sheepishly. “Well, before I even knew it, I found myself in charge of the whole damn show.”

“What exactly is the show?” Jaime asked, looking around him. He noticed her puzzled expression. “Uh … Renly didn’t give me much more than the basic details.” The lie came smoothly, before he had time to think it through. Wait, what was he doing? He didn’t have time to get involved in this nonsense. He still had a long walk home and an evening of some very serious drinking ahead of him.

Brienne grimaced. “Bloody Renly,” she muttered. “No. He means well. He just has horrible follow-through.” She gave Jaime an exasperated look. “But then, as his mate, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”

Jaime nodded dumbly.

“No,” Brienne continued. “Our mission, if you choose to accept it, is to host a Christmas Eve celebration for the current residents of the shelter.” She waved her arm around, and Jaime noticed a crookedly hung sign over the sink: **_Kingsroad Shelter: Solace for the Poor Struggler._** Ah, it was a homeless shelter then. That explained its horribly tragic condition.

“Most of them are homeless veterans from the wars,” Brienne continued. “They served their country honourably; and as a reward, their country turned them out onto the streets -- no homes, no medical care, no governmental support to speak of. It’s utterly shameful.” Bright red spots coloured Brienne’s cheeks, and her eyes flashed angrily. She looked at Jaime’s confused expression and caught herself. “Sorry. I can get a bit wound up about the injustice of it all.” She took a deep breath, marshaling her composure. “Anyway we try to give them a happy Christmas. Try to provide a hot meal, a present or two, and a bit of holiday cheer such as it is.” She glanced around the dingy kitchen, her expression worried but resolved. “That said, we have until seven to get this place decorated, the Christmas tree up, the presents wrapped, and a holiday dinner with all the trimmings cooked and served.”

When Jaime raised his eyebrows incredulously, Brienne sighed. “Some might say it’s an impossible feat; but then miracles have been known to happen. At least that’s what Cat said when I told her I was far too short-staffed to pull this off. Of course, you will also notice that Cat is not, in fact, here; so if this proves to be a massive cock-up, it’s all on me.” She gave him self-deprecating grin, and Jaime couldn’t help grinning back.

“Then it seems we best not cock things up,” he replied, before he could help himself. Well, apparently he was going to go through with this charade. Perhaps the awful peppermint martinis from the party hadn’t entirely worn off.

Brienne exhaled noisily, her face taking on a look of relieved gratitude. “Right. Thanks, uh … Jaime.” She smiled, looking at him contemplatively. “You know, it’s strange. I don’t remember Renly ever mentioning a friend named Jaime.”

“Strange,” Jaime agreed, before giving her a knowing smile. “But then, you know bloody Renly.”

Suddenly, Jaime was filled with a strange sense of purpose -- a purpose that he hadn’t experienced in a very, very long time. He would help this tall, intimidating woman. Help her put on a happy Christmas for those who needed it most. What else did he have to do tonight? Go home to his empty flat and drink himself into a stupor? No, he was needed here -- desperately needed, Brienne had said. Hell, Jaime couldn’t remember the last time he had been desperately needed … well, by anyone really.

He turned towards the counters which were piled high with crates of veg and boxes and tins and great loaves of bread. “OK,” he said. “What should I do?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Jaime, still undercover, meets our cast of misfit toys and tries his hand at good deeds.

At first, when Renly hadn’t shown up, Brienne had been annoyed -- and hurt. Well, mostly annoyed. He had promised. The man had bloody well promised! In fact, when she had first raised concerns about the Christmas Eve dinner at the shelter conflicting with his brother’s annual holiday party, Renly had shrugged away her worries. He told her that he hated loathsome Robert’s Christmas fête and that working at the shelter would be an excellent excuse to leave the sodding “nightmare before Christmas” early. He told her that maybe he could even convince Loras to come along and that the two of them could take over the cooking duties. Loras had mad skills in the kitchen, and in other rooms, actually -- nudge, nudge, wink, wink, Brienne…

And Brienne had cut him off before he could elaborate.

Brienne was grateful for Renly’s offer, though. She had hugged him in sheer relief and had sworn to be his very best friend for the rest of her days. And Renly had embraced her in return and looked at her with the soft, liquid eyes he often sported when Brienne made such declarations of friendship. And then -- well then, he hadn’t come.

As the afternoon wore on, Brienne had texted Renly over and over in a panic. There was no way she would be able to get everything done without his help -- especially now that Robb and Jeyne had fallen ill. However, Renly had never responded. He hadn’t answered his phone when she had tried calling. Hadn’t even read any of her texts. To not show up was one thing; but to not give her the courtesy of letting her know that he wasn’t, in fact, coming was beyond the pale.

When her fourteenth SOS to Renly had gone unanswered, Brienne’s annoyance and panic had turned to anger. She was used to Renly not coming through. Quite used to Renly not coming through. No, Renly Baratheon was very much like a shark or a small child -- easily distracted by shiny objects. However, Renly knew how important this evening was. He knew that Brienne was stressed beyond capacity. He knew that she was already insecure, never having been in charge of something so monumental and important. And yet, knowing all that, he had gone bloody AWOL on bloody Christmas Eve. And Brienne was fucking livid.

In fact, Brienne was just in the middle of leaving a carefully worded, obscenity-laced text for her now former best friend, Renly sodding Baratheon, when Jaime had walked in -- all six foot two, golden-haired, expensively-suited, painfully attractive Jaime.

Now Jaime wasn’t Renly; but at least, he was something. A very handsome something. In fact, Brienne thought to herself, it was odd that Renly had never mentioned having such an incredibly beautiful friend (Renly, as already established, being very taken by shiny, pretty things). Yet, Brienne hadn’t heard a word about Jaime before he had come waltzing through the shelter door to save the day like a knight out of a story. Was he a new friend of Renly’s? A past flame? One of Loras’ circle of impossibly handsome and impossibly gay men who brunched on the weekend and unironically called themselves the Rainbow Guard? Brienne had almost texted Renly to ask for more details on this entirely-too-pretty-for-his-own-good knight in high-fashion couture who had shown up on her doorstep all rumpled and cold and glowing and gorgeous. However, she was still well and truly cheesed off with Renly sodding Baratheon and was determined that she would not speak to him ever again. Well, at least until he apologised.

No, for now Brienne would just thank the heavens that Renly (stupid, selfish git that he was) had sent Jaime to help.

Unfortunately, Jaime looked like he hadn’t done a day of hard work in his life. However, Brienne could work around that. At the very least, he was an extra pair of hands. And they desperately needed every hand that they could get.

Once she had him outfitted in an apron, Brienne had left Jaime cutting vegetables with the girls in the kitchen and hurried off to see to the Christmas decorations and gift sorting. She had been tempted for one quick minute to take him with her, if only to have something lovely and pretty to look at in the midst of all the stress and chaos. However, the girls needed help in the kitchen, if dinner were to be ready on time. No, there would be plenty of time to enjoy looking at Jaime, once dinner was prepped and in the oven. She needed to see to the other nine hundred and ninety-nine tasks on her to-do list first. Not that Jaime was something to-do. Lord she was objectifying the poor man. Only now she couldn’t help thinking about putting Jaime on that to-do list -- perhaps putting him first on that to-do list and doing him well and good. God! Brienne blushed at the thought and then, thoroughly disappointed in herself, hurried off to see to the gifts.  
...........................................................................................................................................................................................................

“You’re doing it wrong,” the little one grumbled, pushing Jaime out of the way and taking the knife from his hands.

“Arya,” the older one admonished. “Be nice. He’s only just learning.”

“Just learning?” the one apparently called Arya groused. “He’s like a hundred and seven years old. Who doesn’t know how cut potatoes at that age?”

Jaime frowned. “Why the hell would I need to know how to cut a potato? Is that a crucial life skill these days? And I’m barely forty, I’ll have you know.”

“Same difference,” Arya shrugged.

“There is a big bloody difference, you little weasel,” Jaime spit out, reaching out to grab the knife again. However, the older girl stepped forward, smoothly removing the knife from Arya’s grasp and shooing her off to stir the gravy.

With a final glare, Arya left, muttering under her breath exactly what Jaime could do with the potatoes since he obviously couldn’t chop them worth shit.

“You’ll have to excuse Arya,” the older girl said, once the little one had retreated. “She’s angry because we can’t go home for Christmas this year.”

“You mean she’s usually not this unpleasant?”

The girl laughed. “Oh, she is. She’s just usually not so rude to strangers right off the bat. She normally likes to get to know a person before threatening them with bodily harm.”

“Charming,” Jaime deadpanned.

“Here. I’ll show you how to do it so you don’t cut yourself. I’m Sansa, by the way.”

“Jaime,” Jaime muttered.

The novelty of the whole experience had worn off after the first twenty minutes, and Jaime found himself suddenly wishing he were back home halfway through the bottle of Glenfiddich Reserve that Tyrion had gifted him with a strict warning to save it for truly special occasions.

Brienne had gone off to see to the decorations ages ago. And it was far less exciting in the kitchen with no one but the two young girls to keep him company. Honestly, doing good deeds was bloody boring. No wonder most people avoided them at all cost. Jaime sighed and turned towards Sansa.

“There’s really nothing to it,” Sansa explained. “You just have to mind your fingers.” The knife flashed and suddenly the potato had been quartered, and Sansa had started dicing the quarters into precise squares.

Jaime watched, begrudgingly impressed.

“So how do you know Brienne?” Sansa asked, handing Jaime the knife for a turn.

“Oh, I don’t,” Jaime said, picking up the knife and trying to mimic Sansa’s movements. “I’m a friend of … well, Renly sent me.”

“Yeah,” Sansa said. “I figured you had to be from that lot. You have that look about you.”

“What look?”

“The look that says you’ve always gotten everything on your Christmas list.”

“Not true,” Jaime said testily. Who were these two mannerless children? And who were they to be making judgments about him? Wasn’t he here at a goddamn homeless shelter helping out on Christmas Eve of all nights? And then when Sansa rolled her eyes, “I’ll have you know that when I was nine, the only thing I wanted -- the only thing I even, in fact, asked for was a sword. I was obsessed with knights and kingdoms and medieval stories. Wanted to grow up to be a modern day Arthur Dayne. I was sure I could do it too. I just needed a good sword. Only, Christmas came and no sword -- just a bicycle and an electric scooter.”

“Oh, only a bicycle and an electric scooter,” Sansa said flatly. “Poor, baby.”

“Hey, I had my heart set on a sword,” Jaime grumbled.

“We get two presents each,” Arya chimed in, coming over, gravy spoon in hand. “Two -- and we have a spending limit. With seven kids, Christmas gets expensive. Last year, when Dad lost his job, we all wrapped up one of the toys we already owned and exchanged them with each other.”

Sansa smiled remembering. “Oh yes, that was the year I got Rickon’s stuffed Drogon toy.” She looked at Jaime critically. “I was fourteen, in case you were wondering.”

Jaime held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine,” he groused. “Point made. I am, indeed, one of that lot.”

“I’d bloody well kill for a bicycle,” Arya said wistfully, her spoon dripping gravy on the already dirty floor.

“Yes,” Jaime quipped, eyeing her suspiciously, his hand tightening on the knife. “I’ve no doubt that you would.”

Brienne chose that moment to pop her head into the kitchen. “Jaime, can I borrow you for a quick minute?” She turned to Arya and Sansa. “I just need him for a bit to help us right the tree. Can you spare him?”

“Jesus please take him,” Arya said, shrugging her shoulders. “He can’t even cut a potato. He’s entirely useless.”

“Arya!” Sansa cried.

But Jaime, happy for the reprieve, couldn’t have cared less about the insult. He wiped his hands on his apron, gave Arya a smug look, and followed Brienne out of the room.

..................................................................................................................................................................................................................

“Well,” Brienne smiled, assessing Jaime as he followed her down the hallway. “It seems like you’ve survived kitchen duty unscathed. Still have all your fingers?” She wiggled her own long fingers teasingly.

“All present and accounted for,” Jaime quipped back, flashing his own hand at her. “Although it’s not from lack of trying. I’m afraid my knife skills are not up to par -- at least according to Arya.”

Brienne laughed a great booming laugh that startled Jaime but brought a grin to his face just the same.

“No one’s knife skills are up to par according to Arya. I wouldn’t take it personally. That girl may very well grow up to be a weapon’s expert … or an assassin. Jury's still out.”

Jaime nodded in agreement. “The girls?” he queried. “They’re Cat’s kids? The woman you mentioned who usually runs this night?”

“Catelyn Stark. Yes,” Brienne replied. “She managed the shelter for ages, before her family moved back to Winterfell last year. She still comes down and helps out with the big events from time to time. This Christmas Eve celebration is her baby. Well, it was her baby until her real babies got sick. Now, I guess it’s my baby.” Brienne gave a sardonic snort. “Bit of a problem child, really.”

Jaime smiled a half smile. “This Cat woman must have a great deal of children,” he mused, trying not to let the distaste show on his face.

“There are seven all together. Five of her own and then Jon and Theon, distant relations whom Cat and Ned took in years ago.” She gestured down the hall. “You’ll meet the boys in a minute. I’ll need all the muscle I can round up to get that damn tree upright and secured.”

Jaime gave her an appraising look out of the corner of his eye, noting the well defined muscles under her jumper. She was like something out of a myth or legend, and he found himself strangely drawn to her. “You look like you have quite a bit of muscle yourself,” he said appreciatively.

Brienne instantly flushed red, a stricken expression flashing across her features. “Yes, well, as massive as I am, even I’m no match for this giant fir tree. I’m afraid it’s going to take all hands on deck.” She inhaled primly and increased her pace, and Jaime was left feeling like he had said something wrong.

However, he didn’t have time to contemplate the issue, as Brienne led him back into the big, front room.

Jaime paused, looking around in surprise. No longer did the room look like the scene of a grisly murder -- or rather, if a grisly murder had happened, it now looked like it had been tastefully done. Soft, glowing lights had been strung around the room. Tables had been moved in and were covered with alternating red, white, and gold tablecloths. Fat, maroon candles set in the middle of each table, presiding over the table settings. On closer inspection, Jaime could see the mismatched, chipped dishes and the oily sheen of the cheap tablecloths -- but that was only on closer inspection. Brienne and her team had done wonders.

“Oy! Jon! Theon!” Brienne called into the hall. “Can you come help with the tree?”

A few minutes later, a short, dark-haired man with a trimmed beard and a serious expression wandered into the room.

“Jaime,” Brienne introduced, gesturing to the man. “This is Jon Snow. Jaime’s a friend of Renly’s who has graciously come to help.”

“Ah,” Jon said, coming over to offer a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Jaime took the proffered hand, noting the slightly aggressive grip from the shorter man. He tightened his own grip, in response. “Pleasure.”

“Where’s Theon?” Brienne broke in, looking around the room, as if she would find him hiding under one of the tablecloths.

“Just finishing a smoke,” Jon replied, waving a hand in the direction of the entryway.

Brienne rolled her eyes. “I thought he had given them up. Cat’s going to murder him.”

“He plans to quit before we go back to Winterfell,” Jon explained. “He’s good at quitting. He’s done it a million times.”

“Yes,” Brienne said flatly. “And therein lies the rub, doesn’t it?”

A door banged, and a scruffy, slightly-built, young man came shuffling into the room. He ran a hand through his damp hair and grinned at the assembled company.

“Theon,” Brienne said calling him over with a frown. “God, you stink of smoke,” she groused, when he came closer.

“It’s Christmas, Brienne,” Theon said lightly. “Lay off, yeah.”

“Fine,” Brienne relented with a long-suffering sigh. “But only because it’s Christmas.” She turned to Jaime. “Jaime, meet Theon Greyjoy. Theon and Jon are honorary Starks -- well, at least until Cat finds out about the smoking, and then Jon may be the lone honorary Stark.”

Theon grinned and shook Jaime’s hand. “Nice to meet you, mate. Thanks for helping out.”

Jaime nodded.

“Yes, and speaking of helping,” Brienne broke in. “What say we get this massive devil of a tree up off the ground?” Brienne turned back to Theon. “You couldn’t have picked a smaller one that was easier to manage?”

“I got it at a discount,” Theon said, grinning and winking at Brienne. “They were having a difficult time selling it.”

“Yeah, because no one could bloody well move it,” Brienne grumbled under her breath.

“What’s that?” Theon joked. “I couldn’t quite hear you. Were you thanking me for procuring a Christmas tree at the last moment, Brienne?” He smiled charmingly. “I did quite save the day, didn’t I?” He reached over and patted her shoulder. “You’re so welcome, luv. I’m happy to help.”

Brienne begrudgingly gave him a smile and sighed. “Yes, whatever would we do without you, Theon? We'd be quite lost.” She turned to Jaime and Jon. “All right, men,” she said, gesturing towards the tree. “Let’s get this bloody thing up and secured.”

It took some time and quite a lot of cursing and scratched limbs, but the four of them managed to right the tree.

At one point, Brienne had been holding up the tree by herself, as the men all tried to screw in the base. Jaime, mostly useless in his own efforts, had chanced a quick glance up at her.

She had taken off her jumper and was dressed in a faded, black t-shirt, her biceps straining against the tree’s weight. A sheen of sweat had broken out on her forehead, and her face was set in an expression of determination. She turned her head and met Jaime’s glance, her eyes that startling blue, and Jaime had felt a bolt of electricity jump through him. He must have let it show on his face, because Brienne had given him an odd look. Quickly, he turned back to his task of screwing in the tree, hoping that his red cheeks could be explained away by his exertion.

Once the tree was up, it was time to start decorating. Pod brought in the boxes from the office, and Jaime, Brienne, and Theon set about unwrapping gold, plastic stars, and cheap, glass icicles, and packets of tinsel. Jon begged off, retreating back into the kitchen to check the roasts and help the girls.

Jaime Lannister had never decorated a Christmas tree in his life. As a child, he had just awoken one morning to a beautiful, tastefully decorated tree every Christmas season, never giving a second thought to who had done the decorating. Servants, more than likely. And as an adult, Jaime didn’t bother decorating his flat for Christmas, aside from the pre-decorated tree that he ordered every year. The less he had to think about the holiday the better.

No, Christmas had ceased to be anything resembling fun the year that Jaime’s mother had died. He remembered that Christmas distinctly. He and Cersei silently opening presents while his father watched from a removed distance. Tyrion not even allowed to be a part of the holiday -- up in his nursery with the ill-tempered nurse. Jaime remembered pasting on a smile that day, desperately trying not to cry -- Cersei silently willing him to hold it together so they wouldn’t be sent back to their rooms.

“Jaime,” Brienne sighed, pulling him from his reverie. She looked at his work critically. “You need to spread the decorations around the branches. Don’t put them all on the same one. Look,” she gestured to the limb that he had been decorating. “You have so many ornaments on that branch, it’s about to snap off the tree.” She moved forward, undoing most of his work with a patiently exasperated smile.

Jaime exhaled, not able to keep the annoyed expression off of his face. “You’re quite bossy, you know,” he grumbled.

Brienne snorted. “So I’ve been told. Is that a problem for you?” She looked over and gave him a challenging grin.

“Not at all,” Jaime replied, his own grin sharp and calculating. “I like a woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to demand it.”

Brienne’s grin faltered at that, her cheeks colouring. Was he coming on to her? Perhaps he wasn’t gay after all. She chanced a glance back at him.

He was biting his lip, looking at her like she were made of gingerbread, and he wanted to eat her up.

Yes ... maybe not gay after all. “Uh … um, right,” she sputtered, her face burning. “Perhaps I should send you back to Arya then.”

Jaime held up his hands in concession. “No, no. There’s a difference between bossy and homicidal. I’m good here.” He placed a hand over his heart, his grin turning more friendly and less feral. “I promise I will do better. I'm a fast learner.”

They worked in silence for the next half an hour, occasionally stealing glances at each other. Brienne’s cheeks seemed to be a permanent shade of red, but she met his questioning looks head-on. And Jaime, never having been tongue-tied in his life, suddenly found himself at a loss for words.

The whole thing was perplexing. Jaime was usually quite immune to the wiles of the fairer sex. Not that Brienne was using any feminine wiles, unless one counted the splotchy red blush that covered her face or her determined silence. Why then was Jaime behaving like an insecure teenager? Rolling his eyes at his new found awkwardness, Jaime turned back to his work, carefully unwrapping a delicate, feathered ornament in the shape of a crow and holding it up to the light. “This one’s seen better days,” he said, smiling at the bird’s battered visage.

“They all have,” Brienne agreed. “Oh!" she cried, reaching out for the crow. "That one Jon made when he was just a boy.” She smiled fondly remembering. “He worked on it for days. He was so damn proud of his efforts. Ned made us all stand and clap for him.”

Jaime watched her face soften at the memory and wondered what it would have been like growing up as Brienne had -- as the Stark children had. He shook his head. No use getting maudlin over things he couldn’t change.

Blinking, he looked over at Brienne and found her smiling warmly at him. Suddenly he felt shy and ducked his head to escape her glance.

When the tree was mostly decorated, Brienne unpacked a small, oblong box, carefully taking out a tattered, bearded man in a long, white robe, wearing a crown of holly.

“Ah, yeah! There he is! Father Winter!” Theon exclaimed in excitement. “Brienne, you should do the honours this year.”

“Oh,” Brienne protested, holding out the figurine. “No, no,Theon. You should put him up. He’s been in your family for ages.”

“My family. Your family,” Theon shrugged. “It’s all the same. Besides, you’re running the show this year. Cat would want you to put him up.” He gestured to the ladder next to the tree, urging her on.

“Yeah, she would,” Jon agreed, suddenly appearing from the kitchen, a vision in felt reindeer antlers and a frilly apron. “Go on, Brienne. It’s all you.”

Brienne glanced at Jon worriedly. “How’s the food coming?”

“Everything will be ready and served on time,” Jon replied. “Now come on. Up you go.”

Brienne gave an anxious smile, but nodded. Holding the figure delicately in her hand, she carefully started to ascend the lower rungs of the ladder.

Grinning, Jon wandered over to stand next to Jaime, giving him a nod of acknowledgment. “Best part of decorating the tree,” he explained.

Jaime nodded in agreement, observing Brienne’s slow progress up to the top of the tree. “She’s quite something, isn’t she?” Jaime mused.

“Yeah, she’s great,” Jon said, watching as Brienne, precariously perched on the ladder rungs, reached one long arm across the prickly branches to place Father Winter. The ladder wobbled with her movement. “Watch it, grace!” Jon warned. “You don’t want to take the whole bloody tree down with you!”

Brienne frowned, shifting the figure to her other hand in order to give Jon a jaunty, two fingered salute.

“Nice,” Jon called laughing. “Always such a lady, Brienne of Tarth.”

“Never claimed to be one,” Brienne quipped. “Now stop distracting me, Snow. If I fall and break my neck, you’re in charge of this trainwreck.”

Jon grinned, holding up his hands. “God forbid.”

“Have you known her long?” Jaime asked, when Brienne had gone back to her task at hand.

“Since we were kids,” Jon replied, reaching a hand up to right the ridiculous reindeer antlers he was wearing. “She grew up on Tarth, but she used to come to Winterfell a couple times of year with her dad.” He gestured to where Theon was bringing out the brightly wrapped Christmas gifts and carefully placing them under the tree. “We all grew up together -- Robb, Theon, me, Sansa, Arya. Bran and Rickon are quite a bit younger, but Bran would tag along on the odd adventure with us from time to time.” He smiled remembering. “Man, we used to get into so much trouble. Mostly it was down to Robb or Theon. Brienne though, she was constantly coming to our rescue -- arguing down our punishment with the adults or taking on the brunt of the blame, even though it was never her fault.” He shook his head. “There’s not many like her out there.”

“No, I suppose there isn’t,” Jaime replied. He watched Brienne struggle, swearing loudly as an evergreen branch sprung back and slapped her across the face. “And how does she know Renly?”

“University.” Jon replied. He pitched his voice low, looking over at Brienne carefully. “She’ll never admit it, but she carried quite a little torch for your friend Renly for a long, long time.”

“For Renly?” Jaime said amazed. How could Brienne have fallen for Renly, of all people? The man was -- well, aside from the fact that Renly was gayer than Yuletide, he wasn’t at all Brienne’s type. Well, what Jaime assumed Brienne’s type would be. Not that he knew her or anything. Probably best not to assume when it came to matters of the heart...

“Yeah,” Jon acknowledged, breaking into Jaime’s thoughts. “I’m surprised Renly never told you. It was pretty pathetic, in all honesty. She got over it though, thank fuck. They’re good mates now.” He shook his head, grinning. “Man, we used to give her such crap for mooning over that stupid prat.” Jon looked at Jaime, realisation suddenly setting in. “Uh, sorry. I know he’s your mate. I mean, he’s OK, I guess, if you like them high-maintenance. A bit self-absorbed but all right as the crow flies.”

“No, please,” Jaime smiled holding up a hand. “Don’t apologise. Believe me, I’ve called Renly far worse than a self-absorbed prat.” And he had -- on numerous occasions.

Jon laughed.

“Is she with anyone now?” Jaime hazarded, suddenly interested in Pod’s efforts to fix one of the strings of lights.

Jon raised his eyebrows. “Who? Brienne? Naw. She was dating a wanker from her work for the better part of last year, but I think she got bored.” He grinned. “I know I did. That git was the dullest, least memorable bloke I’ve ever met. Hale or Hyle or something pretentious. Sucked all the energy out of the room just by walking into it. No, Brienne’s lucky to be shot of him.”

A sharp cry interrupted their conversation, and the two men turned to where Brienne, finally having wrestled Father Winter onto the topmost branches, was raising her arms in a victorious salute.

Jon whistled through his teeth in acknowledgement -- he, Jaime, and Theon heartily applauding her efforts.

“Thank you. Thank you,” Brienne joked, shimmying down the ladder quite gracefully. She turned to them, giving a mock bow, her hair sticking up in wild points. “I’m here all week.”

Jaime grinned and reached out to pluck a piece of tinsel from her hair. “It seems someone’s mistaken you for a Christmas tree,” he said softly, trying to free the shiny, silver strand from her blonde head. His fingers brushed over her hair before wrapping around the metallic thread. Carefully he detangled it, his knuckles accidentally grazing Brienne’s temple, sending a tiny electric pulse up his arm. Jaime felt heat infuse his cheeks, and he pulled his hand back quickly.

Brienne looked at him curiously. “Well, I am tall enough.” She shrugged and gave him a lopsided grin. “Anyway, I’ve been mistaken for worse.”

Jaime laughed, rubbing his buzzing arm with his other hand, and Jon gave him an oddly suspicious look.

“It looks good, Brienne,” Jon said, looking around the decorated room. “I can’t believe we are going to pull this off. I bet Pod a fiver it wouldn’t happen.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Brienne quipped. “Don’t you know never to bet against a Tarth when victory is on the line? We’re good in the clutch.”

“Lesson learned,” Jon answered, reaching an arm over to fondly pull her against him, although his head only came up to her armpit. He blinked, his eyes a bit glassy, before standing on tiptoes to kiss her cheek. “Good show, you. You did the impossible.” And then softer, “You know, Cat’s right. You’ve really come into your own, old girl.”

Brienne smirked and patted Jon on the head. “You’re so cute when you try to be all serious and important and grown up. Shall we get you a cardigan and some reading glasses? You can shake your head at all the rest of us and mutter, ‘Kids these days.’”

“Piss off,” Jon said, rolling his eyes and pulling away in a huff.

“Now, now, Gramps. We must watch our language in front of the children,” Brienne smirked.

Jon turned to Jaime, shaking his head in mock annoyance. “All those things I just said about her. Forget them. She’s a fucking nightmare, mate.”

Jaime laughed, looking over at the cheeky grin plastered on Brienne’s face.

She winked at him, before fondly reaching over to grab Jon and Theon, pulling them close for a quick squeeze.

Jaime felt his face warm and raised a hand to distractedly rub the stubble on his jaw. No, definitely not a nightmare. Definitely not a nightmare at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and leaving feedback. I truly appreciate it. 
> 
> My goal was to finish this by Christmas, but that seems ridiculously ambitious -- especially since chapter three is currently doing its absolute best to murder me. 
> 
> Also, I failed to mention earlier that the chapter descriptions are another nod to "Friends." 
> 
> Fun fact: trying to distract myself while writing this chapter, I took a million “Which 'Friends' Character are You?” quizzes and got Rachel every time (even though I was determined to get Phoebe). Sigh -- maybe it’s my questionable taste in men. 😒


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Jaime learns that he is not the center of the universe and that perhaps other people deal with tragedy and trauma too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst? Party of one? Your table is ready. ; )

“Here you are.” Jaime maneuvered the enormous pork roast onto the table, being careful not to jostle the assorted cups of non-alcoholic cider, tea, and water that littered the red tablecloth. 

“Ah, that looks good enough to eat,” one of the table’s occupants proclaimed, rubbing his hands together eagerly. 

Jaime looked over at the grizzled man. He looked to be somewhere between sixty and eighty. The years had obviously been hard on him, etching the painfully deep lines into his face, so it was difficult to tell precisely. However tonight, Jaime noted, the man’s sparse, white hair had been combed back and his beard roughly trimmed for the occasion. 

“Thank you, young man,” the old man continued magnanimously. “Are you the cook?”

“Sadly, I am not,” Jaime replied. “Although I did have a hand cooking the potatoes.” He gestured to the glass dish of roasted sweet and white potatoes lying at the edge of the table. “Jon, over there, was in charge of the roasts.”

“Well give him our regards, then,” the old man said heartily. He shot Jaime a bemused grin. “I like your apron, lad.” He pointed to Jaime’s green, holiday themed coverall. “It matches your eyes.”

“And I quite like your hat,” Jaime quipped back, pointing to the garish paper crown falling askew over the old man’s head, making him out to be a bit drunk or mad. “Very Aerys Targaryen.”

The man laughed loudly and pulled out an empty chair at the table. “Sit,” he commanded. “Break bread with us.”

“Thank you,” Jaime demurred. “But I have to get the rest of the food out.”

“We've got everything we need here. You can sit and join us for a cup of something, at least,” the man protested. 

The other men seated at the table clamored in boisterous agreement. 

Jaime looked around the room to where Arya, Sansa, John, and Pod were in the midst of bringing out the food and waiting on the tables. 

There were quite a few tables to serve, and Jaime’s services were definitely needed. Earlier, Jaime had asked Brienne if it wouldn’t be easier to simply set up a buffet and dish out the food in an orderly fashion. But she had looked at him aghast and explained that they were trying to give the residents a happy, family Christmas, and dispensing food cafeteria-style did not fit in with that mold. So serving tables it was. 

Honestly, Jaime was surprised that they had managed to get this far at all. However, they had worked like hell; and, by the time the residents had shown up at seven, the tree was trimmed, the presents were wrapped, the candles were lit, and the food was warming in the oven. Theon had even set himself up at the old, dodgy piano and was currently serenading the patrons with quiet and only slightly out-of-tune Christmas carols. 

The once horrible room was now alight with warmth and music and food and companionship. 

Brienne, changed into a smart, white suit, its long, clean lines accentuating her powerful body, had assumed the role of host. Once the guests arrived, she flitted around the room, welcoming the residents. And Jaime found himself oddly attuned to her -- seeking out her tall form in the crowded room, as she moved from table to table, greeting people and dispensing Christmas cheer.

“Sit!” The old man cried again, breaking through Jaime’s thoughts. “I promise we will protect you from her, if she throws a fit.” He gestured to where Brienne was smiling good wishes down at a table.

Jaime smirked and sat. “I don’t know,” he joked, looking at the circled array of old, slightly decaying men. “I think she could take you all. Quite easily, in fact.”

The table erupted in laughter.

“I like you, lad,” the old man said, holding out large hand spotted with age. “Joseph Quent.”

Jaime grasped the hand in his own. “Jaime,” he affirmed.

“Jaime,” the old man repeated and then gestured to the man at his right. “That there is Lem. Then it’s Cley, Smalljon, Greatjon, Fatjon, and Snout.” 

“Nice to meet you, gentlemen,” Jaime said smoothly. “Now, I will shirk my duties and accept your invitation, on one condition. You must start eating.” He pointed to the roast, sitting forlornly in the middle of the table. “Please. I insist. Before it gets cold.”

“Done!” Joseph Quent cried, slapping the table for emphasis. He reached over to the roast and, picking up a great slab, dropped it on the plate in front of Jaime.

Jaime gave him a bemused smile, but simply turned to Snout. “Could you pass the potatoes please?” 

.....................................................................................................................................................................................................................

The dinner actually turned out to be rather delicious. It was rough fare, nothing like the beautifully presented, five-star food served at his sister’s soirées, but filling just the same. What’s more, Jaime found himself completely entertained by the stories of the old men. 

They had lived remarkable lives, every single one of them. Lives defined by war and service to country. They had loved and lost and adventured and experienced great horrors and even greater pain. And still they had the good grace to laugh and joke and enjoy themselves. How they had ended up spending Christmas Eve in a homeless shelter was absolutely incomprehensible to Jaime. However, when he voiced this thought, the table fell silent.

“Sorry,” Jaime said, suddenly realising that he had said something wrong. “I don’t mean to …”

“Listen, lad,” the one called Fatjon broke in, leaning forward, his eyes intent. “None of us at this table expected to be here. We all had family. We all had dreams. But that’s life innit? She’s a right little bitch, when it comes down to it. But, in the end, we all follow where she leads.”

“Be careful, son,” Joseph chimed in. 

Jaime turned to look at him.

“It can all go to hell just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “You think you’re immune to it -- above it all. And then something happens, and you find yourself totally alone down on the ground for all to trample.” He reached over and patted Jaime’s forearm. “Be wary, lad. Choose wisely.”

Jaime swallowed and nodded.

“Joe!” Brienne called, suddenly materializing behind Joseph Quent’s chair and startling Jaime. “God, you’re looking well! I haven’t seen you since the Easter holidays. How are you?” She clasped a large hand on his shoulder.

“Good, lass, good,” Joe replied, turning in his chair to gaze up at Brienne, all his former seriousness gone. “You’re looking gorgeous as always, luv.”

“Not wearing your glasses, I see,” Brienne quipped, giving him a bright smile. “What happened? Did you misplace them yet again? Do I need to get you one of those beaded chains the ladies like to wear?”

The table laughed, all the men offering well wishes, as Brienne came around to greet them one by one. 

Jaime smiled, watching Brienne as she made the rounds, her blue eyes shining and her grin sincere. She was really in her element, trading barbs with the men, remembering personal details about each one. 

“Brienne. I quite like your fella, here,” Joe said, winking at Brienne when she had come back round the table again. He clapped a hand on Jaime’s back. “He’s a good man. Not like the last one you brought round here.”

Brienne’s eyes widened, her cheeks colouring. “Thanks, Joe. But Jaime’s not my fella,” she protested, and Jaime couldn’t help but smile at her vehemence. “Although, after saving me today,” she went on, “he is a bit of a hero around these parts.”

Jaime felt his grin expand, threatening to take over his face. “Any time,” he said warmly. “My pleasure.”

“However, hero or not,” Brienne continued, “he’s currently shirking his Christmas pudding duties.” She gestured toward the kitchen where Sansa was bringing out a flaming dish of Christmas pudding to the oohs and ahhs of the assembled dinner guests.

Jaime held up his hands. “Not my fault. They invited me to sit. Coerced me into it.”

“Yeah, Brienne,” Smalljon protested. “He’s an official member of the company now. You can’t break up our ranks. Not on Christmas Eve.”

Jaime gave her a helpless shrug.

“Fine,” Brienne said, rolling her eyes in patient acquiescence. “I’ll fill in on pudding duty.” She gestured good naturedly to Jaime. “You just sit and enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks,” Jaime smiled, lowering his voice and giving her a knowing smirk. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

“Oh, indeed you will,” Brienne agreed, giving him her own cheeky grin. “You’re on dish duty with Arya.” With that, she turned and threaded her way through the tables towards the kitchen.

Jaime grinned after her, watching the slight sway of her hips in her fitted pants. 

After a few silent moments, Greatjon cleared his throat, drawing Jaime’s attention back to the table to where all the assembled men were watching him with amused tolerance. 

“Yes, sorry,” Jaime mumbled. 

Joe reached over, grabbing Jaime’s arm. “Let me tell you something, lad.” His grip on Jaime’s forearm tightened, his voice suddenly serious. “In the war, if you were very, very lucky, you came across someone that you knew -- knew beyond a shadow of a doubt -- would throw themselves in front of a bullet for you. Those idiots who would charge into the piss and blood and heat of it, knowing damn well that they couldn’t win. Just because it was the right and honourable thing to do.” His voice rasped. “Most of us in this room are alive because of someone like that.” He nodded towards Brienne who had stopped on her way to the kitchen and was embracing a scraggly man wearing a tattered Christmas scarf, her strong arms wrapped around his shoulders. “That’s her.” Joe turned back to Jaime, looking at him intently out of rheumy eyes. “She’d sacrifice herself for good, without thinking twice.”

The men around the table nodded, and Jaime cleared his throat, his cheeks heating at the solemness of the conversation. “Yes,” he agreed quietly. 

“She’d be worth it, young man,” Joe continued, nodding sagely. “She’s the type of woman who could change your life.” 

..............................................................................................................................................................................................................

When the Christmas pudding had been eaten and the gifts passed out (mostly hats, scarves, and mittens to keep off the cold), Theon gathered everyone around the piano for a sing-along. 

Jaime let the others go, staying behind to start clearing dishes and cleaning the tables. 

He didn’t know many Christmas carols, and the idea of singing publicly gave him a bit of a stomach ache. Instead, he and Pod brought dishes back to the kitchen and started packing up the leftovers. 

“They're actually qu -quite good,” Pod said smiling, as the motley assembled crew broke into a rendition of “Joy to the World.”

“I suppose,” Jaime said noncommittally, scraping the leftover gravy into a plastic container. 

“It’s sad that they ha-have so little.”

“It is,” Jaime agreed.

“I was almost like them, you know,” Pod said, and Jaime stopped what he was doing to look at him.

“When I first came to King’s Landing,” Pod continued. “My family had kicked me out. I had nowhere to go. No real skills. I c-c-could have easily ended up on the street.”

“What happened?” Jaime asked.

“Brienne. She got me a paid internship at her work. Found a place for me to stay. Co-signed the lease.”

“Why?” Jaime asked, his voice sharp and insistent.

Pod looked taken aback. “Because she wanted to help me. She gave a damn -- which, in this day and age, is saying something.” He shook his head, his chin going up. “Besides, I like to think she got a return on her investment.”

“I wasn’t implying…”

“No. That’s the problem, though, innit? People like me -- people like them,” Pod gestured to the doorway, “have no worth in this world. People look at those blokes out there and think that they’re used up -- not worth any time and care. They don’t realise that those blokes are people just like everybody else. People with their own stories and talents and hardships.”

“But not Brienne,” Jaime said quietly. "She doesn't think that way."

“No, not Brienne and not Cat, thank God,” Pod said, looking at Jaime challengingly.

The music changed, soft, minor chords filling the tense silence of the kitchen. In the front room, the gathered voices started to sing a low, melancholy chant.

Jaime stopped, frozen in place. “What song is this?”

“Dunno,” Pod said, still indignant. “Why?”

But Jaime was already moving towards the door. 

In the front room, the assembled company was gathered around Theon at the piano; low, bass, baritone, and tenor voices coming together in pensive harmony. 

_“What Child is This,”_ Jaime thought suddenly. _“What Child is This.”_ His mother’s favourite Christmas carol. Instantly he was transported back to midnight mass in the cold, empty church at Lannisport when he was four. Cersei was asleep in the pew, but Jaime was in his mother’s arms listening to the church choir sing “What Child is This,” his mother whispering the words into his ear.

Jaime felt his vision blur and blinked rapidly, the soft candlelight playing tricks on his eyes and morphing the plastic, folding chairs into hard, ornate pews of polished wood -- the tattered group of homeless men into a church choir in oxblood robes. 

Brienne glided over to him, an empathetic smile on her face. “It’s overwhelming isn’t it?” she whispered.

“Christ,” Jaime grimaced, wiping the wetness from his eyes with the back of his hand. What the hell was he doing? What had come over him? It was a fucking Christmas carol. He turned to Brienne embarrassed. “Shit. Sorry. I’m being ridiculous.”

“Gosh, don’t apologise,” she soothed. “Totally normal reaction. Look,” she pointed over to where Jon was brushing the tears away with the corner of his apron, his reindeer antlers askew on his head. Arya, her face set in a perpetual scowl, was also surreptitiously wiping her own eyes from her vantage point in the back of the room. 

“Honestly,” Brienne continued, “you should see me in the car driving home after one of these nights. Ugly crying at it’s best ...or rather worst. Seriously, I look like the drowned God. Not a pretty sight at all.”

Jaime gave her a watery smile. “No. It's just … memories…” He trailed off, and Brienne reached over to give his arm a squeeze.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I won’t tell anyone that you’re human.”

Jaime choked out a laugh, and Brienne returned to the group, adding her rich, lovely contralto to the blended voices. 

.....................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Two hours later, Jaime sat in the passenger seat of Brienne’s practical sedan more exhausted than he had been in a very long time.

Clean-up had taken fucking forever. And then, when it was time to go, he had remembered that he was still without his wallet, phone, and car keys. Luckily, Brienne had offered him a ride. It was the least she could do, she insisted, after he had helped so much. And suddenly Jaime found himself alone in a car in the early hours of Christmas morning with Brienne Tarth.

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” Brienne apologised. “I’d hoped to have you home by Christmas, at least.” She gestured to the clock on the dashboard, the numbers 12:17 AM glowing green. 

“No problem,” Jaime replied, waving away her concern. “I’m happy to have had the distraction.” He sighed tiredly. “Honestly, the sooner Christmas is over the better.” 

“Not a big fan are you?” Brienne asked, glancing at him.

“That’s putting it mildly.” He turned in his seat, looking at her. “How anyone could enjoy the holiday, is beyond me. Forced to spend money on ridiculous gifts that no one really wants - forced to spend time with people you don’t want to spend time with. Too much booze -- too much small talk. Pretending that you are happy, even when all you want to do is lock yourself in a very dark room. And don’t even get me started on the family obligations: the criticisms and barbs. Always disappointing someone or offending someone else. Honestly, all things being equal, I’d rather Take the Black.”

Brienne smiled. “The residents seemed to enjoy it, though,” she said softly. “Tonight, I mean. It seemed to brighten them a bit.”

Jaime felt the instant guilt flood through him. “Oh no! I didn’t mean tonight, Brienne. Look. I’m sorry. I was just feeling sorry for myself about having to spend time with my loathsome family. I didn’t mean to discount tonight. Tonight was great. Truly great. And the men loved it.”

“It’s fine Jaime,” Brienne said. 

“No, really. I’m awful. Utterly awful. The truth of the matter is, I had a big blow-up with my sister earlier today which completely soured me on the holiday.” He sighed and ran a hand down his tired face. “Damn it. I’m sorry. You worked so hard tonight. I didn’t mean to disparage it.”

He shook his head. “What a pair we make, eh? Here I sit, a right, old Ebeneezer Scrooge, and you -- well, you’re the spirit of Christmas come to life, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No really. You, Brienne Tarth, are Christmas personified. A flesh and blood rendering of peace on earth and good will towards men.”

Brienne inhaled, her muscles growing rigid. “That’s a bit ironic,” she mumbled.

Jaime turned. “Why is that ironic?” He looked at her quizzically. 

She gave him a tight smile but then shook her head and turned her attention back to the road. “No reason,” she said lightly. She reached over to turn up the car radio which was playing a medley of sickly sweet Christmas carols. Nothing like a smooth jazz rendition of the Virgin birth to get one in the holiday spirit. 

Sensing something behind her words, Jaime reached out, lightly touching her hand as it rested on the gear shift. “Brienne? Why is that ironic?”

“Um,” she said, her eyes flicking from the road to their hands until he withdrew his own, wondering if he had overstepped. “Well, I suppose it’s ironic because I’m really not a fan of this time of year. I mean, I’ve made peace with it now,” she continued, trying to hide the raw vulnerability of her voice with a brisk, hearty tone. “But I still dread it every damn winter.”

“Really?” Jaime turned further in his seat, pulling out the seat belt so that he could completely face her. However, Brienne kept her eyes set firmly forward. “I’d never have guessed. You seem so full of Christmas cheer.”

“Years of practice.” She smiled ruefully, reaching out once more to fiddle with the dials of the radio.

Jaime watched her. The slight tremble of her fingers. The quickness of her breathing. There was more to it than just a simple dislike of the holidays. But it was none of his business. He barely knew her. Loads of people dreaded the holidays. Hell, he couldn’t stand them, himself -- as he had made quite clear only moments ago. Best to leave well enough alone. 

“So what happened, then? To make you dread Christmas?” he asked, surprising himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her wince. “I mean, don’t feel like you have to answer, if it’s too personal or anything,” he continued hurriedly.

Brienne pressed her lips together, giving him a tense smile. “No it’s fine.” She glanced over at him briefly, and he gave her an encouraging nod. “It’s nothing … well, it’s something, but everyone has their own tragedies.” She reached up to finger the the faint, shiny line on the side of her nose. “Their own scars …”

“Brienne,” Jaime cut in, suddenly worried he was pushing too hard. “Don’t feel like you have to. I shouldn’t have asked.”

She cleared her throat. “It’s fine Jaime.” She nodded to herself. 

“It happened when I was eight. We were coming back from a holiday party.” She gestured to the rain falling on the windshield. “I’m from the Stormlands, and December is a particularly bad month for weather. Storms on the island come out of nowhere, often with no warning, and they create all kinds of havoc. The roads on Tarth aren’t great to begin with. In a storm, they’re …” she broke off. Her hand on the gear shift tightened, and before he could stop himself, Jaime reached over and lightly touched her forearm, his index finger skimming along the long, corded muscle before retreating.

She gave him a tight smile and continued. “When the squall came up, we should have just pulled over and let it pass. But it was Christmas Eve, and we kids were all keyed up for Father Christmas and presents, and so my father pushed it.”

Jaime frowned, realising too late where the story was heading.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Brienne said, her voice quiet. “The winds were brutal, and the roads were slick. When the truck passing us spun out, there was no way he could have avoided it.”

“Oh Christ. Did he die?” Jaime asked, reaching out to cover her hand again. 

“No,” Brienne said, her voice strangely distant. “It would have been easier for him, I think, if he had.” She stared off into the darkness of the road in front of her for a few heavy moments. “No, he survived. But my mother, brother, and two sisters were killed instantly.”

“Jesus.” Jaime closed his eyes. “Jesus.”

“I don’t remember any of it. I hit my head rather badly, and I guess it was touch and go there for awhile. But I survived. Came back to a strangely empty home and a strangely empty father.” She cleared her throat roughly. “Anyway, after that, we just didn’t celebrate Christmas. My father would always arrange to be traveling. It was just easier that way. But even though we didn’t celebrate it, I dreaded it. I still dread it,” she corrected. “Every year.”

“I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry, Brienne.”

“It was worse when I left Tarth. Out here, Christmas is a major spectacle,” she gave a tight laugh. “You can’t avoid it, even if you try.” She moved her hand slightly, breaking out of Jaime’s grasp, and brought it up to tiredly run it through her hair. “So much holiday cheer and decorations and singing and celebrating.” She smiled faintly. “It’s quite hard to feel seen when everyone else is celebrating except you. You feel like a pathetic anomaly -- feeling grief and despair when the world is all about comfort and joy. And you feel resentful -- and then guilty about feeling resentful.” She sighed. “Anyway. Long story short, it’s not my favourite time of year.”

Jaime looked at her, her face set, stoically calm. “No. I can well imagine.” He fell silent, the warm air of the car suddenly thick and claggy with the intimacy of her reluctant confession. 

Brienne turned her attention back to the road. The radio switched to a commercial.

“Wait,” Jaime said, finally breaking through the uncomfortable silence. “I don’t understand.” He turned to her, his expression tentative. “Christmas is not your favourite time of year -- and with good reason. But instead of avoiding it all together, or drowning your sorrows in alcohol like any sane person would do, you’ve instead chosen to host huge Christmas parties for strangers and decorate gigantic Christmas trees and cook vats of Christmas pudding?”

“Yes, well,” Brienne explained. “I realised I had two options. I knew I was going to feel bad anyway, so I could either isolate myself and feel bad on my own or I could try to help others and maybe feel slightly less bad.” 

Jaime suddenly flashed back to the old man's words: **_"Those idiots who would charge into the piss and blood and heat of it, knowing damn well that they couldn’t win -- just because it was the right and honourable thing to do."_**

“Besides,” Brienne continued, a brave smile on her face. “Christmas pudding is fucking delicious.” 

Jaime laughed, shaking his head. “You are bloody remarkable, you know that?”

“Not remarkable. Just a bit broken around the edges -- much like everyone else, I suppose.”

“Not like everyone else. Not like everyone else at all,” he said, his earnestness making his voice raspy. “I, for one, think you’re marvelous.”

She smiled at him briefly, before turning her attention back to the road. “Thank you, Jaime,” she said quietly. “You’re entirely too kind.”

“Hah! Now look who’s being ironic.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Brienne,” he said, giving her his best self-deprecating smirk. “I am sure it will come as no shock, but I have never, in all my years on this planet, been described as kind.”

She sniffed indignantly. “I don’t know. Any man who willingly gives up his Christmas Eve to help serve dinner and hand-out gifts at a homeless shelter; any man who listens to the stories of people who society has deemed unimportant; who is overwhelmed when he sees true goodness, is kind in my book.”

Jaime rolled his eyes, reluctant to take the compliment. He wasn’t good and kind. Not really. Brienne just wanted to believe the best of people. She was ridiculously naive. Too naive for her own good. 

“Uh … Jaime?” Brienne hazarded, her voice suddenly hesitant. “Er … I know you hate Christmas. And I’m sure you have some great and terrible holiday party or Christmas dinner to attend tomorrow … um today, I mean. However, if you find yourself at odds and ends, the whole gang is coming over for a little celebration. The Starks don’t want to go home for fear of exposing themselves to the flu, and Pod always spends Christmas with me, so I offered up my place.”

“Really?” Jaime queried. “That won’t make you sad?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be sad. It’s Christmas, after all. But I won’t be sad because of them. Anyway, you’re welcome, if you aren’t busy.”

“I’d love to come,” Jaime said softly. And he was surprised to realise that this was true. 

“I’m afraid Renly won’t be there,” Brienne continued apologetically. “I did invite him, but he’s spending the day with Loras’ family. However after tonight, you know everybody so it won’t be like you are on your own.”

Jaime frowned. He should tell her. Tell her that he wasn’t friends with Renly. That Renly didn’t, in fact, send him. However, she was looking so vulnerable, and he didn’t want to her upset her any more. “Can I bring something?” he asked instead.

“Wine?” Brienne suggested. “If you don’t mind. Don’t worry, if you can’t. I know it’s last minute, and the shops are sure to be closed…”

“Brienne,” Jaime cut her off. “I’ll bring wine. I’ll bring loads of wine. It’s no problem.”

She smiled. “Great. Everyone’s coming over around two.”

“I’ll be there,” Jaime smiled.

They fell silent then. However, it was a comfortable silence. The silence of knowing that one had put in a hard day’s work -- accomplished something good and worthy. Jaime felt his eyes growing a bit heavy and blinked to keep them open. The heat from the car and the soft Christmas carols, and the safety of knowing that someone strong and capable was bringing him home lulling him into a contentment that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. 

Unfortunately, the trip was over before he could truly sink in and enjoy it; and, before Jaime knew it, Brienne was pulling onto his street.

“This is me,” Jaime said, gesturing to a towering row of luxury flats.

“This is you?” Brienne repeated, her voice incredulous. She gazed up at the slick, modern building, its chrome and glass shining in the glow of the street lights.

“It’s rather vulgar, I know,” Jaime said sheepishly. 

“No, no,” Brienne insisted. “It’s lovely. It’s just a bit of a shock coming from the shelter.” She glanced down at her steering wheel anxiously. “I’m slightly embarrassed to drive up to the door, actually. They’re going to think you’ve been kidnapped -- or that you’ve been slumming it with the smallfolk, which, I guess you have been.”

Jaime frowned. “I am not slumming. And you’re certainly not small -- in any sense of the word.”

Brienne grimaced, and Jaime, realising his mistake, rushed to explain. “Look,” he soothed. “I am very grateful for the ride. And for the company, for that matter.” 

“All right then,” Brienne said firmly and pulled forward to the curb. “I guess it will make a good story. The poor doorman looks quite bored. Might liven up his Christmas Eve.”

As soon as Brienne eased the car up to the front of the building, the doorman stiffened, promptly starting over to open Jaime’s door. However Jaime waved him away before he could get far. Instead, Jaime turned to Brienne who was still gazing up in awe at the building. “I mean it. I truly appreciate the ride -- and the Christmas invitation. You didn’t have to, but you made me feel very welcome tonight.”

“Of course,” Brienne said, turning her attention back to Jaime. “Although, I’m a bit worried now that the promised Christmas festivities won’t live up to your standards. It’s just a simple little get together. And my flat is nothing like this.” She gestured to his building. 

“If we get through the day with no one injured, poisoned, or disinherited, it will be a million times better than any Christmas I’ve experienced.”

Brienne laughed, although her face looked wary. “Poisoned?”

Jaime smiled a brittle smile, “My sister was … uh, upset one year when we didn’t agree to her plans.” And then when Brienne couldn’t hide the shock. “It wasn’t enough to do damage. Just made us a bit sick.”

Brienne whistled lowly. “Well, I can definitely promise no poisoning unless it’s accidental. Just be careful of any dish Pod brings with him. He does try, it’s just not always completely edible.”

Jaime smiled. “I’ll watch out.” He reached up, suddenly filled with a nervous energy, and scratched the side of his neck, looking at Brienne from under his eyelashes. He should say goodbye and leave. Just get out of the car. However, he remained rooted in place. 

Brienne shifted in her seat, looking just as uncomfortable as Jaime was. “Yeah… well, uh … thanks,” she finally blurted out, her cheeks flushing pink. “Seriously, we really couldn’t have done it without your help. I was cursing Renly’s name, before you came. But, in the end, he did me a big favour sending you. You were much more helpful than Renly would have been at his best. And everyone loved you. You completely saved the day.”

Jaime felt the heat rise in his own face. What was with all this blushing? Jaime Lannister didn’t blush. What was this woman doing to him? “It was my pleasure,” he said warmly. “Really. I can’t imagine a better way to spend Christmas Eve.”

Brienne snorted out a laugh. “Best not lie, Jaime. You may end up on the naughty list.”

Jaime laughed and cocked an eyebrow, leaning towards her slightly and lowering his voice. “Oh, I’m definitely on the naughty list, but it’s not for lying.”

Brienne’s face turned a deeper shade of red, and Jaime couldn’t resist. Before he could think better of it, he leaned over and kissed a scarlet cheek, feeling the warmth from her blush on his lips. “Thank you,” he said, pulling back to look at Brienne’s startled face. “For accepting me. Including me. Inviting me into your holiday.”

“Of course,” she murmured, her expression dazed. She cleared her throat. “And we’ll see you around two?” She reached over to give him the address she had hastily scrawled on an odd receipt.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Jaime replied, taking the proffered paper, his lips still slightly buzzing from the kiss. He thought about leaning over to kiss her again, but she seemed rather unsettled, her hands plucking nervously at the steering wheel. So he just reached over and squeezed her forearm. “Until tomorrow then.”

She gave him a soft smile. “Bye, Jaime. Happy Christmas.”

"Goodbye, Brienne. Happy Christmas to you as well."

......................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Later on, up in his flat and finally out of his bloody dress shoes, Jaime poured himself a whiskey.

What a truly insane turn of events. He felt like he had lived a week in the last nine hours. His fight with Cersei seemed years ago. He couldn’t even really remember what had been said. No, his mind was now completely preoccupied with a pair of incredible, blue eyes and a chaste kiss on the cheek. 

Damn! It had been a long time, a very long time since Jaime had felt attraction towards a woman. And what a bloody woman she was -- all six foot three of awkward strength and grace. No, Brienne Tarth wasn’t at all what Jaime would have chosen -- wasn't at all what he thought he wanted. Yet somehow, beyond all reason and logic, Jaime found that he did want her. He wanted her rather a lot, actually. The whole thing was mind-boggling. 

Sighing, Jaime fumbled for the landline that Tywin had insisted he put in so that he would always be available to his father’s beck and call. First thing’s first, he called Bronn, instructing him to go by Cersei’s to pick up his mobile and keys and then to swing by Jorah Mormont’s place on his way over to Jaime’s flat. When that was settled, and Bronn had finished bitching about having to go out at fucking midnight on Christmas fucking Eve, Jaime poured himself another drink and firmly punched in the number he knew by heart. 

“Tyrion,” he said when the outgoing message ended. “It’s Jaime. Look, I know you are probably trying to get as far away from the family as humanly possible, especially at this time of year. And I know you more than likely won’t even listen to this, but I just met … uh, someone. A very extraordinary someone. And I’m a bit … well, useless at the moment. And I could really, really use some advice on how to proceed, because I don’t want to fuck this up. You were always more knowledgeable in matters like this so I just thought maybe if I talked to you -- even if you didn’t answer -- I could somehow make sense of this.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Lord. 
> 
> Do you know what's crazy? Thinking I could actually finish this in the days leading up to Christmas. Because those days are completely chill, right? Nothing to do -- nowhere to go. Loads of time to sit and write. Lol.
> 
> There are only two more chapters to this story, but I can't promise that they will go up before Christmas. Life is currently insane (cue Jaime Lannisteresque grumbling -- stupid holidays). 
> 
> As always, I appreciate you reading and especially appreciate those who take the time to leave feedback. Your comments are balm for my poor, distressed soul. : )


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Jaime finds the elusive Christmas spirit and then fucks it all up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas: 1  
> Your Overly-Ambitious Author: 0
> 
> Better late than never though, I suppose. Happy holidays!
> 
> PS: This is a massive chapter that I should have split into two. However, I felt bad for the delay, so -- here you go. Mind your eyesight and take a break, if you need one. 😉

Brienne’s flat was exactly like the woman herself -- spare and utilitarian but also strangely warm and inviting. The front room was done in pale woods and soft blues. Black and white framed photographs lined the walls: Brienne’s family, both living and dead. In the corner, a small Christmas tree stood, the white lights giving it an ethereal glow. Brienne’s concession to the season, Jaime supposed. However, the most startling feature of the room was the painting hanging over the mantle. 

Jaime came to a stop in front of it, setting down his shopping bag which was heavy with bottles of wine. 

The canvas was massive, depicting a wild storm at sea -- grey clouds, blue water, silvery winds swirling and flashing preternaturally in a trick of light and perspective. It was shocking in both its brutality and its beauty; and Jaime felt suddenly uneasy as he stood contemplating it.

“I know,” Brienne said, coming up behind him. “It’s a bit maudlin and overly dramatic, especially hanging in the sitting room.”

“No, no. It’s beautiful,” Jaime breathed, still taken aback. He heard the inappropriateness of his comment before he could catch it. “Sorry. I just mean…”

“No, it is beautiful,” Brienne conceded softly. She cleared away the rasp in her throat. “It was painted by a local artist back on Tarth. It was the first work of art I ever had commissioned.” She shrugged. “I suppose it’s my way of coming to terms with everything. Facing things head-on.”

Jaime turned to her. “It’s incredible.”

She nodded, smiling tiredly. “It is, isn’t it.” 

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed.

“Thank you,” she replied quietly. “I am too.” 

After a moment of lingering silence, Brienne reached out and touched Jaime’s elbow with her fingers. It was just the slightest pressure, but Jaime felt the warmth through his jumper and dress shirt. 

“Come on. Everyone’s in the kitchen breaking into last night’s leftovers. When they see that you’ve brought libations, you’ll be the belle of the ball.” 

“Ah, I’ve always wanted to be the belle of the ball,” Jaime quipped, cocking an eyebrow mockingly. “Unfortunately, between my sister and my father, I’ve never really had a fair shake. They are both such shameless divas, they put any of my attempts to shame. ” 

Brienne laughed at that, picking up the heavy shopping bag easily and leading the way into the kitchen. And with one last look at the oddly unsettling painting, Jaime followed, his elbow still slightly warm from Brienne’s touch. 

..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Jaime poured himself another glass of wine, topping off Jon and Theon’s cups in the process. The entire company (with the exception of Arya, who was perched cross-legged on the counter-top holding Brienne’s cat, Crabb) was sitting at the table -- half-eaten dishes of food and full glasses of wine in front of them. The adults had already killed almost four bottles of the best Arbor Red Jaime’s wine cabinet had to offer; and thanks to that, the conversation was flowing easily. For Jaime Lannister, the whole thing was a relatively foreign experience. Indeed, Jaime couldn’t remember the last time felt so comfortable and accepted at a social occasion. 

He had been afraid it would be awkward, joining the ranks of such old friends on Christmas, of all days. However, the minute he had entered the kitchen, Jaime had been met with resounding applause. Of course, the ovation had more to do with the fact that Brienne had held up the shopping bag full of wine and waved it at the assembled company -- but Jaime would take what he could get. 

Once hellos and Happy Christmases were given, Brienne got to work uncorking the bottles and pouring large tumblers for everyone, before piling a massive helping of food onto a veritable serving platter and setting it in front of Jaime. Touched by her care, he had smiled at her and lightly squeezed her wrist, before she could withdraw it. She had looked briefly startled but had returned his smile, before retreating back to the stove to stir chocolate into a pan of hot milk, so that Sansa and Arya would have something festive to drink. 

A mouthful of roast and potatoes, Jaime had then turned to the seated company, listening as Pod launched into a retelling of the disappointing series finale of a fantasy television show most of Westeros had been obsessed with. However, Jaime soon found himself zoning out, his attention drawn somewhere else. He lost track of Pod’s scathing screed and surreptitiously glanced back to where Brienne stood, listening to Arya who was telling her all about the half-dog/ half-wolf pups she was trying to gentle back home. 

Try as he might, Jaime couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss. It had just been a peck on the cheek, small change really, but now he couldn’t look at Brienne without wanting to do it again. Which was dangerous and somewhat creepy, if he really thought about it. Best not to think about it then, he resolved, swallowing a large gulp of wine and trying to focus on Pod’s condemnation of lazy, plot-driven writing.

However, as the night progressed, and the conversation at the table shifted, Jaime found himself unable to fully participate. Unbidden, his eyes kept flitting over to Brienne, as he tried to listen to Jon’s story about his time on the Wall or to Theon’s diatribe on the shittiness of nicotine gum. 

Christ, the whole thing was ludicrous and slightly pathetic. Jaime Lannister completely twitterpated by a giant of a woman whom he had met only yesterday -- yesterday, for God’s sake! It had been less than two days, and Jaime was already giving Pod a very real run for his money in the “fawning over Brienne” category of the evening-- and Pod bloody well worshiped the woman. 

“She’s the best!” Pod said vehemently, clearly not used to drinking. The conversation had turned to a discussion of Pod’s first introduction to Brienne. “The absolute tops! She’s saved me so many times, I can’t even count ‘em.” He leaned closer to Jaime, pulling on his sleeve in his earnestness. “She took me in, mate." He shook his head, frowning. "My dad’s a right asshole. Kicked me out of the house when I was sixteen because I was caught shoplifting a ham.”

Jaime snorted out a laugh at the image; and Pod looked at him woundedly.

“It’s not funny. We were hungry, and Dad wasn’t doing anything about it. And the ham was right there -- for the t - t- taking. I’m not proud. But I did it. I’d do it again.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jaime excused trying to control his expression; but somehow the picture of Pod with a giant ham stuffed down his shirt, set him off again. Jon and Theon broke soon after, and, to the great distress of poor, drunk Pod, all three of them convulsed in laughter, laying their heads down on the table and howling in glee. 

“Piss off!” Pod cried. “You’re terrible -- every one of you!”

Brienne, perplexed at the commotion, came over to the table. “Are you boys being mean to Pod again?” she inquired, her voice stern.

“Ooh, watch it, Jaime,” Jon teased. “Now you’ve done it. Pod’s going to tell his mum on you.”

“She’s not my mum!” Pod cried indignant. “She’s Brienne! An' she's amazing!”

The men only laughed harder.

Brienne surveyed them coolly, smiling a calculating smile. “Ah, I’d be careful throwing stones there, gentlemen,” she warned. “I’m sure the table would be all a twitter to find out some of the less than flattering details of your own childhoods.” She turned back to Pod. “Did you know that one of these two brave, grown-up gentlemen,” she gestured to Jon and Theon, “refused to go upstairs in Winterfell by himself until he was seventeen years old.”

“Really?” Pod cried delighted.

“Yes,” Brienne replied. “I won’t tell you which one because I am not …”

“It was Jon!” Arya cried, from her perch on the counter. “He was afraid of spirits living under the stairs! He thought they’d grab him, and then he’d be trapped living in the staircase for the rest of his days.”

“Arya!” Jon cried aghast, his cheeks bright red. 

“What?” Arya said innocently. She turned back to the group. “He used to ask me or Sansa to walk him up if he needed anything from the second floor. Apparently the spirits wouldn’t attack, if you were accompanied by a small child.”

“But that makes no sense,” Jaime protested laughingly. “What good would a small child do against staircase spirits?”

Jon looked as if he wanted the floor to open up beneath him. “It made sense at the time," he said sheepishly. "I thought that, if they attacked, I’d just sacrifice the girls to them and then I could get away."

"Ever the brave knight," Brienne deadpanned, and the table erupted into raucous laughter.

“Sod off all of you!” Jon groaned, shooting daggers at Arya. 

“Yeah, who’s laughing now, Jon Snow?” Pod cried triumphantly. “Who’s the baby now?”

Suddenly, "Back in Black" by AC/DC sounded loudly from Jaime’s pocket. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Jaime fumbled for his mobile, looking at the screen before getting up from the table. “Ah. Excuse me for just a moment,” he said, moving into the hall to take the call.

When he came back a few minutes later, the group had calmed down and were discussing ghostly sightings in the Weirwood copse surrounding Winterfell. 

Jaime cleared his throat, waiting patiently for the room’s attention, an excited smile on his face. “That,” he said waving his phone in the air, “was Father Christmas. He apologises for his tardiness but says that he just dropped off a present for Arya out in front.” 

Arya rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Fuck off,” she grumbled.

“Arya!” both Sansa and Brienne cried.

Jaime frowned, his smile faltering. “I’m not joking,” he insisted.

“And I’m not six,” Arya shot back, sticking out her tongue.

“Fine,” Jaime said testily. “ _I_ got you something, all right. And it’s just been delivered. It’s outside on the pavement.”

“What is it?” Arya asked in a bored voice.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Jaime growled. The girl was a fucking terror. “Would you just bloody well go outside and see.”

It took some cajoling and a whole lot of peer pressure, but Arya was finally convinced to leave the counter-top and go outdoors, the rest of the group trailing curiously after her. 

Jaime, slightly daunted but still excited, ran out in front. Suddenly, he came to an abrupt stop, throwing out his arms. 

There, on the pavement in front of Brienne’s flat, was a sleek, silver bicycle shining in the pale winter sunlight. 

Arya swallowed, coming to a standstill. She looked at the bike suspiciously before shaking off Jon’s hand on her shoulder. After a moment of stillness, she approached it warily. 

“Well?” Jaime said, too excited to wait for her to process everything.

“This is ... for me?” Arya asked roughly, looking all the world like a trapped animal. She glanced nervously at the bike and then at Jaime and then back at the bike before turning her gaze to Brienne, her eyes entirely too wide.

Dumbstruck, Brienne gaped at Jaime. “What…?”

However, Jaime was grinning madly. “The guy at the shop said it’s top of the line these days. I didn’t know what colour to go for, but I thought silver a relatively neutral choice. If you don’t like it, we can exchange it.”

“It’s too much,” Sansa said, her voice strained. “It’s far too much, Jaime.”

“No, no,” Jaime argued. “It wasn’t that much. I got a good deal on it. A really good deal. I promise. A friend of mine owns the place. He was trying to get rid of the Christmas inventory. Practically gave it to me.” 

“Sansa?” Arya questioned, her voice a tiny squeak, her eyes nervously blinking. She was frowning, trying desperately not to get her hopes up, her body already unconsciously moving toward the bike.

Sansa looked at Jaime for a long moment before turning to her sister. Finally, she nodded. “Go on then. Show us what it can do.”

Not waiting to be told twice, Arya jumped on the bike and started madly pedaling down the street. She let out a wild whoop, barely avoiding running over a pedestrian.

Sansa watched for a moment and then turned to Jaime, her eyes brimming with tears. “Thank you,” she said, her voice strangely low and shaky. 

He tried to shrug away her thanks, but she was having none of it and roughly pulled him into a tight embrace.

Jaime coloured and tentatively put his arms around the girl, awkwardly patting her back.

From down the block, Arya let out another cry of joy, and Jon and Theon, their eyes suspiciously bright, came over to clasp Jaime on the shoulder tightly. 

“Good show, mate,” Jon said, nodding at Jaime.

“Well done,” Theon agreed, running a hand below his eyes roughly. 

“I just thought,” Jaime tried to explain. “Well, I thought she should get what was on her Christmas list for once.”

Sansa gave a strangled sob at that and hugged him again, and Jaime felt the same awkward clumsiness. He was unused to such physical demonstrations of gratitude. It was … unsettling, to say the least.

“Er … I have something for you too,” Jaime said, carefully detangling himself from Sansa’s embrace in order to root around his pocket. His cold fingers fumbled before finally finding the present in question and pushing the brightly wrapped box into Sansa’s hands.

“Oh no, Jaime,” she said, trying to give the package back. “You’ve already done too much.”

“It’s to make up for the stuffed dragon from last year,” Jaime said, smiling sheepishly. “Not that you don’t treasure it, I’m sure.” And then when she still held the present out to him, “Please. It would make me happy.”

Sansa blinked and bit her lower lip. Slowly she unfolded the ornate gold wrapping paper and opened the box, letting out a gasp. With shaking fingers, she held up a delicate gold chain with an intricate gold lattice sun and stars. 

“I know that Winterfell isn’t really known for its sunshine,” Jaime explained. “But I thought it could help to remind you of warmth on those endless winter days.” In actuality he had commissioned the piece for Cersei. However after last night, he was pretty sure his sister wouldn’t be speaking to him for a very long time. Besides, Sansa liked pretty things; and it seemed obvious that there was currently a distinct lack of pretty things in her life.

With a high-pitched cry, Sansa threw her arms around Jaime, once more squeezing him tightly. “Thank you,” she cried. “Oh, thank you, Jaime! It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever given me.” She gave a choked laugh and pulled away, going over to Brienne. “Bri, could you help me put this on?”

“Of course,” Brienne replied softly.

Jaime smiled, looking over Sansa’s red head to where Brienne was fiddling with the tiny clasp. She looked up and locked eyes with him, her blue eyes swimming with something he couldn’t quite translate. Looking at her, Jaime was suddenly overcome with the weightiness of the moment. He felt his face flush and his eyes smart, and he had to turn away very quickly to watch Arya as she zoomed down the street, weaving in and out of the parked cars, her hair whipping in the December wind.

.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Jaime felt the warm woolliness of four and a half glasses of Dornish red wash over him. Brienne’s flat was rather nice. Yes, rather nice indeed. And her friends were also rather nice -- even Arya who was just a big, old teddy bear once you cut through all the surface layers of murderous intent and bloodlust. And it was rather nice sitting here on Brienne’s couch, in Brienne’s sitting room, next to Brienne -- his thigh almost touching hers. He glanced down at her jean-clad leg. Her thigh was rather nice too. So long and lean and strong. Longer than his, actually. Probably stronger than his too. They were most likely well matched in strength. The woman was in excellent shape. One only had to look at her to see that. Even wrapped up in denim, he could tell that those thighs were all muscle. Wonderful, lovely muscle that would feel amazing in his palms as he ran them slowly down... It took all of Jaime’s willpower not to reach out to run a hand over Brienne’s quad, to feel the hard pull and flex of the muscle. No, no. He really shouldn’t touch. However, she was close. She was so close. He would only have to move the tiniest bit to ...

Jaime shifted infinitesimally on the couch, repositioning his leg to purposely rub against Brienne’s. 

Ah, that was easy. And Brienne had hardly noticed. She was currently raptly listening to Theon regale the room with his memories of Ironborn Christmases which seemed, to Jaime at least, even worse than Lannister Christmases -- and that was saying rather a lot. 

Jaime, having tuned out Theon ages ago, exhaled, reveling in the almost instant warmth emanating from Brienne’s body. His whole right side was gloriously warm, and it was making him almost as muzzy as the wine was making him.

He leaned slightly into her, and Brienne gave him a small smile, reaching over to give his knee a quick pat, before turning back to Theon and his stupid stories. 

Well, that was encouraging, wasn’t it? She wasn’t pushing him away or frowning at his close proximity. Nicely done, Lannister! 

Wait.

Jaime frowned, his brain sluggish. Since when had he become a thirteen year old boy on his first date? Should he really be congratulating himself for moving millimetres closer to a woman? Really be celebrating a sodding pat on the knee? Jesus, he was Jaime fucking Lannister. He was good with women! Hell, women constantly threw themselves at him; and they certainly wanted to pat more than just his knee. Christ on a cracker -- what was he thinking? He was much better than these awkwardly nervous advances. It was the wine that was affecting his game. It must be the wine! Or the company. He glanced at Brienne from under his lashes, feeling his face turn tight. 

Theon made a lame joke about the Drowned God, and Brienne sat back against the couch, brushing Jaime’s arm with her shoulder. Jaime instantly felt the heat rise in his cheeks and panicking, moved his arm up against the couch back, unintentionally snaking his arm around Brienne. 

Well, OK then. That was unplanned. It was lucky though. Very lucky. 

Brienne side-eyed Jaime’s arm but didn’t move, and Jaime, a bit breathless (stupid wine!), shifted closer. Right. Now he just needed to make a move. An actual move. Not this stupid wooing by millimetres shit in which he was currently engaged. 

He felt her hair brush up against his forearm -- tickling his skin and causing his breath to hitch. Hell, he couldn’t just jump her on this couch in front of all of her friends. Could he? Unbidden the image popped into his mind, and he gave a sputtering cough almost in Brienne’s ear. 

Damn! 

He sucked in a breath, trying to compose himself, but the saliva in the back of his throat entered his windpipe, intensifying his coughing fit and making him gasp for air.

Brienne turned, giving him a worried look. “Are you all right?”

He tried to answer her, but succeeded only in turning a deep scarlet.

“Here, let me refill your drink,” Brienne said, grabbing his empty glass and wrenching herself from his awkward almost-embrace. 

Shit. 

Still sputtering, Jaime reached out to grab her back, but Brienne was already half-way to the kitchen. Not lucky, then. Not lucky at all. 

Tears streaming from his eyes and his breath coming in gasps, Jaime jumped up to follow her, ignoring the odd looks he was getting from the rest of the group.

.........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Brienne had filled a glass with water and was just turning to head back out to the sitting room, when Jaime entered the kitchen.

“Here you are,” she said, holding the glass out to him.

“Thanks,” Jaime said, still red-faced from his coughing fit. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper and downed the water in three gulps.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you." Jaime smiled and handed the glass back to Brienne. He worked to compose himself, still bound and determined to make a move.

Running a hand through his hair, Jaime looked around the empty kitchen. At least they were away from prying eyes here. Brienne might be more amenable to his advances without an audience in attendance. Of course, not having an audience might work against him too. He glanced at her questioningly. She wouldn’t punch him, would she? No, she seemed too kind for that. One never really knew, though. 

Unaware of Jaime's inner turmoil, Brienne set the glass on the counter and moved to go back out to join the group.

Shit, Lannister. It was now or never. 

All of a sudden, Jaime noticed a sprig of green hanging over the doorway between the kitchen and foyer. He moved towards it, his heart thumping in his chest.

“Brienne, could you come here a second?”

“What?” She looked at him puzzled.

“Come here. I...uh just want to show you something.”

“In the foyer?”

Jaime rolled his eyes. Impossible woman! “Yes, damn it! In the foyer. Now will you come here?”

Brienne sighed in exasperation but did his bidding. “What?” She questioned, trying to peer into the darkness of the entryway. “Do you see something?”

Jaime grabbed her arm and pointed up. “Look,” he whispered, leaning in close. “Mistletoe.”

Brienne looked up and huffed out a laugh, her brilliant eyes shining with amusement. “That’s holly, Jaime.”

Jesus the bloody woman would be the death of him! Was she being purposefully blind?

“I think,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, “you are mistaken. That is clearly mistletoe.”

“It’s my house, Jaime. I put the damn thing up. It’s holly.” She shook her head. “Look,” she backed up and pointed at the door frame. “It has red berries, not white; and the leaves are dark green and prickly.”

“Brienne, I don’t want to argue with you about useless botanical details.” His voice was higher than he liked it, but she was being so damn frustrating. “It’s clearly mistletoe, and we are clearly standing under it.” He shot her a warning look. “It’s bad luck, you know. Not to kiss, when standing under mistletoe. Angers the old gods. Guarantees a horrible year to come.”

Brienne rolled her eyes and gave him an incredulous look. “Lord, now you’re just making shit up.” She smiled at him indulgently. “Tell me, do these lines usually work on women?”

“Dunno. I usually don’t have to use a line to get a woman to kiss me,” Jaime said exasperated. Why was the bloody woman being so difficult? Surely she didn’t find the thought of kissing him repulsive. That idea was completely preposterous. He was Jaime fucking Lannister, for Christ’s sake!

Brienne studied him, his golden hair falling across his forehead, his green eyes narrowed and almost catlike, the sharp line of his jaw. “No,” she mused, swallowing, suddenly nervous. “I don’t suppose you would have to resort to pick-up lines.”

He smiled and took a step forward, directly into her space. “So, can I kiss you then?” he asked lowly. Another step. “Do what I can to prevent the gods from exacting vengeance on us?”

“I don’t know,” Brienne replied, squaring her shoulders to meet him head-on. He really was presumptuously cocky. Look at him advancing towards her like a conquering army. Typical male bravado in all its glory. “Will you admit that it’s holly?”

“If that’s what it takes to get you to shut up about it.” He took another step forward, his chin going up to meet her steady gaze.

She nodded and gestured for him to proceed.

“All right, bossy. It’s bloody holly,” he growled, bridging the remaining distance between them.

Brienne smiled smugly. “Now, was that so difficult, Jaime? If you would…”

He surged forward. 

He had meant to grab her shoulders, but somehow his hands ended up on her hips, pulling her into him, as his mouth attacked hers. This was no chaste kiss on the cheek in her car. This was something else entirely -- the wine drowning his better judgement in a deluge of impulsivity. 

Brienne made a squeak of surprise, but her hands fluttered up to wrap around his shoulders, and, after a moment of tension, her lips softened and molded themselves with his. 

Jaime felt a wave of something warm (inebriation? insanity? desire?) flood up his chest and into his face and fingers. His grip on her hips tightened, and he angled her body into him, his teeth scraping at her bottom lip, tugging and pulling until she opened her mouth on a gasp, and he snaked in his tongue. 

Christ. The heat was going to suffocate him. It seared up his spine, diffusing across his back and over his chest. His hands slid around her waist, dipping lower as he pulled her slightly up and into him. 

With a faint moan, Brienne’s long fingers released his shoulders and smoothed up his neck to wind themselves in his hair, tangling and pulling slightly until, with a groan of his own, Jaime released her mouth to bury his face in the juncture of her shoulder and neck, nipping and sucking until Brienne’s breath stuttered and caught. 

Now this -- this was a move, Jaime thought. Or he would have thought it, if his mind weren’t completely mushed softness. What wasn’t soft, however, was his ...

Suddenly the phone in Brienne’s back pocket went off, startling them both. 

With a quiet cry, Brienne jerked away, panting hard, her hand reaching for her phone. 

“It’s Renly,” she rasped, checking her screen.

Renly. Who was Renly and why was he calling? Jaime blinked, trying to comprehend the rapid change of pace. All of a sudden, he felt like he was suffering from sunstroke -- which was ridiculous because it was bloody December. 

“I’m sure he just wants to apologise for yesterday,” Brienne mused.

Shit, shit, shit! Renly! Renly Baratheon! 

“Leave it,” Jaime growled. “Let him stew a bit longer.” Damn it all to hell. He needed to explain to Brienne about Renly. Why hadn’t he said something last night in the car? Stupid, fucking idiot that he was. 

“No, I should take it,” Brienne replied sheepishly. “It’s Christmas.”

“Brienne, don’t,” Jaime repeated reaching out to still her hand, his voice almost desperate. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

Brienne gave Jaime a puzzled look, before detangling their fingers. “No, Jaime. I really should take it. I won’t let him off easy, I promise. But it’s Christmas, and he’s my best mate.” She smiled a shy smile, her eyes soft. “I should also thank him for sending you." She bit her lip. "Really, really thank him for sending you.”

She pushed accept on the call. “Renly Steffon Baratheon,” she said, trying to keep her voice stern. “So you can, in fact, use a phone!” 

And with a last, fond look at Jaime, Brienne wandered off to her bedroom to take the call.

...............................................................................................................................................................................................................

“You have some nerve calling me, Renly Baratheon,” Brienne chastised. “After leaving me in the lurch like that. You’ve done some shady things in your life, ser, but this? This -- this is beyond.”

“I know, I know, darling,” Renly cried, his voice raw and dripping with contrition. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. There’s no excuse for my awful behaviour. I was planning to leave the party early and come help. I promise I was. Only Loras surprised me with a handful of molly that one of Willas’ sketchy friends had just shoved in his pocket when they were both at the bar. And it must have been cut with something crazy because, darling, I’ve taken molly before, and it was never like this.” Renly groaned pitifully. “God, Bri, I was out of control. Completely cooked. Margaery says I was an absolute, bloody nightmare. Apparently I embarrassed Robert horribly, and you know how difficult it is to embarrass loathsome Robert. And don’t even ask about Stannis. I called him today to apologise, but he refused to talk to me -- is refusing to talk to me until I, and I quote, _‘attend a rehabilitation program and find religion.’_ ” He broke off sighing. “I promise I was on my way to help you, only the drugs were so strong …”

“Wait a minute,” Brienne broke in. “You were planning to come and help me? At the shelter? High on drugs?”

“It wasn’t my best idea,” Renly said sadly.

“No.” Brienne deadpanned. She sighed in exasperation. “Why didn’t you answer any of my calls then? You, at least, could have explained all this to me.”

“I lost my phone,” Renly admitted shamefully. “Cersei found it later in the Christmas cake. Apparently I hollowed out part of the top layer and shoved the phone in.”

“You did what?”

“I know. It was bad. I’ve alienated my entire family and embarrassed myself in front of Olenna. Believe me, I’m paying for my sins.”

“Not enough,” Brienne said primly.

“I’m so sorry, love.”

“Why didn’t you ring earlier today? Explain all this?” 

“I’ve been laid up with the most crippling hangover. Apparently one shouldn’t mix molly with peppermint martinis. I’ve been prostrate in Loras’ room with the lights out for most of the day. I feel like utter shit.”

“Poor baby.”

“I know, I know,” Renly pleaded. “I deserve every excruciating minute of it.” He paused. “But listen, my darling. You have to let me make it up to you.” 

Brienne made a noise of protest, but Renly continued doggedly. “As a start, for your Christmas gift, I’ve booked you a vacation in Essos at the same resort Loras and I stayed at last fall. All expenses paid.”

“You what?” Brienne’s voice cracked. 

“I know you have vacation time coming up in February. And it will be good for you to get out of the city and truly relax. You take care of so many people, pet: the Starks, me, all those homeless chaps. It’s time someone takes care of you.”

“You booked me a vacation at a resort?” Brienne repeated uncomprehendingly.

“It’s the very least I could do after my reprehensible behaviour.”

“Jesus, Ren. That’s… that’s insanely over the top.”

“You’re worth it, darling.” 

“God,” Brienne grumbled, annoyed that her anger at Renly seemed to be melting away. Damn him! He knew just how to manipulate himself into her good graces. Well, he did have plenty of practice with it. 

“You rich toffs,” she groused. “Always throwing your money around, thinking it will solve everything. Well there’s my Christmas gift to you ruined, thanks very much.”

“No, darling. I’m sure I’ll love whatever you got me.”

“Hah!” Brienne cried vehemently. “I bought you a jumper -- at half price, no less.”

“You are always so good with expenses, my love.”

“Stop,” Brienne said, laughing in spite of herself. “I can’t take any more of the groveling. I bloody well forgive you, all right. Besides,” she continued smiling, “you did send Jaime to help, and he completely saved the day. So I have to thank you for that.”

“I did what?” 

“You sent Jaime. He was a massive help. We couldn’t have done it without him.”

“Who is Jaime?”

Brienne furrowed her brow. “Jaime. Jaime your mate. Jesus, Ren, did the drugs kill your few, remaining brain cells? Jaime: blonde hair, six foot two, amazing eyes, quite dishy.” “ _Extremely talented kisser,” she added in her head, her cheeks flushing pink._

“Fuck me!” Renly exclaimed. “Do you mean Jaime Lannister?”

“Jaime,” Brienne said exasperatedly. “You sent him from the party because you were indisposed. I thought you just wanted to spend time with Loras and were willing to sacrifice an unwitting victim, but apparently you were high as a kite ...”

“Brienne,” Renly broke in, his voice had turned suddenly serious. “I did not send anyone to you, least of all Jaime Lannister. I wouldn’t wish Jaime Lannister on my worst enemy.”

“What?” Brienne said confused. “I’m not following.”

“God,” Renly bit out. “Do you mean to say that Jaime Lannister told you that I had sent him to help you?”

“He said that you were mates.”

“Hah! Fuck that! The day that I am mates with Jaime bloody Lannister is the day I give up sex for good and join the septry on the Quiet Isle.”

“So you didn’t send him?” Brienne’s face was flushed, her mind struggling to understand.

“No!”

“Then why did he say that you did? Why did he say you were friends?”

“I have no fucking clue,” Renly growled. “How dare he! I’m going to murder the wanker!”

“Ren,” Brienne tried to soothe. “Ren. It’s OK.”

“Did he do anything to you?”

“Do anything? What do you mean?”

“Did he hurt you? Say something awful?”

“No,” Brienne protested completely bewildered. “He just helped with the evening. He was kind. Caring. The residents loved him.”

“Brienne, he’s a Lannister. He doesn’t care about anything other than his psychotic family. They are all awful. Rotten to the core -- every last one of them. If Jaime’s acting nice, you can bet he has an ulterior motive. He was having you on. I’d stake my life on it.”

Brienne blinked, unable to comprehend the rapid turn of events. Jaime wasn’t Renly’s friend? He hadn’t come to help? Then why was he here? In her kitchen? Having just given her the best kiss of her life? 

“But, he worked hard the whole night,” Brienne protested. “He was great. He did everything I asked him to do. Perhaps,” she hazarded, her voice tentative. “Perhaps he’s not as awful as you think.” _He kissed me, she thought desperately. He kissed me. It couldn’t have been a joke. Could it?_

“Brienne, don’t be stupid. He’s already lied to you -- numerous times. And Jaime Lannister would think nothing of making you believe the best of him and then stabbing you in the back. They don’t call him the Kingslayer because of his kindness. Besides, why would he pretend that I had sent him, if he wasn’t having you on?”

“I don’t know …”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Ron Connington already? You thought he was wonderful too until he humiliated you. Remember him? Remember how he made you think he was interested? How lovely and caring he pretended to be?” 

Brienne swallowed, her face flushing uncomfortably. “Yes, Renly. I remember…”

“Brienne, listen. The Lannisters are evil. They only care about themselves. You should have heard Jaime and his sister go at it just last night. Absolute toxic vitriol. I have never heard anything like it, and that was towards each other, for fuck’s sake!” He huffed into the phone. “Although I really shouldn’t be surprised by anything Jaime and his sister do. I’ve seen the two of them destroy people just for the thrill of it all. You remember poor Melara Hetherspoon? I introduced you to her at Loras’ gallery show a few months back? Well, she and Jaime used to be an item, until Jamie decided that he was bored of her. However, instead of doing the honourable thing and simply calling it off, he and Cersei decided that it would be ever so much fun to string poor Melara along a bit. They batted her back and forth like two cats playing with a mouse before finally publicly humiliating her at the big Lannister Shareholders Gala. Believe me, I have no fondness for Melara, but I wouldn’t wish that treatment on anyone. The whole bloody room was laughing behind her back.”

Brienne’s face heated, as her mind flashed to her own public humiliation. God, Ron Connington and that damned rose. She had thought he liked her. Really liked her. He had been so nice; and she had believed him. Stupidly. And then she had paid the price. Years later, and she could still hear the laughter reverberating.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to get entangled with him.”

Brienne jolted back to Renly. “Oh no, really... I wasn’t…Only, he’s been so nice, so kind to me...”

“Brienne, come on,” Renly said in exasperation.“It’s Jaime fucking Lannister -- one of the most eligible bachelors in all of Westeros.”

The implication was there. Renly didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. It was in the tone of his voice, the slight elongation of the vowels: _Why would he be interested in you, Brienne? Why would he ever be interested in you?_

“Right,” Brienne said, swallowing down what she thought was a protest but, in hindsight, tasted a whole lot like hope. “Well, he’s here now, so I should probably go and talk to him.”

“He’s there!” Renly cried outraged. “The bastard!”

“It’s fine, Ren,” Brienne said tiredly. “I’ll get rid of him. He’ll probably be relieved that the jig is up, and he doesn’t have to waste anymore time here with me.”

Renly suddenly seemed to realise he had gone a bit too far in his dire warnings and softened. “Darling Bri, you know I’m only being all ominously doom and gloom because I love you, and I don’t want to see you hurt. That thing with Connington… you weren’t yourself for months afterwards.” He paused, and when she didn’t respond, cleared his throat, his tone noticeably lighter. “Listen, do you need me to come over and kick some Lannister ass? I’m quite good with the fisticuffs.”

Brienne forced out a hollow laugh. “No, no. Don’t be silly, Ren. I can handle it.”

“Good,” Renly said, with a tired laugh, “because, although I’d die defending you against enemy armies, my love -- I am much too hungover at the moment to drive.”

......................................................................................................................................................................................................

Jaime was sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, when Brienne returned. She paused in the entryway, silently looking at him -- taking a few deep breaths. She could do this. She could do this. She’d faced worse in her life. This wouldn’t kill her. 

“Jaime Lannister,” she said her voice remarkably steady. “That’s your name.”

Jaime startled, looking up from his hands, his green eyes worried. “Brienne…” He hurriedly rose from the table. 

However, Brienne held out a hand, effectively stopping him in his tracks. “One of the Lannisters of Lannisport apparently,” she continued in a clipped, cold voice. “Son of Tywin Lannister; brother of Cersei Baratheon, Robert’s wife.”

Jaime lifted his chin challengingly, his eyes growing distant. “Yes. Very good. Now that we’ve established my family tree…”

“Not,” Brienne interrupted, “in fact a friend of Renly Baratheon.”

“No,” Jaime agreed guardedly. “Not a friend of Renly Baratheon.” 

“The opposite really. Renly didn’t actually have anything nice to say about you.”

“Well, the sentiment is completely mutual,” Jaime spat out, suddenly furious at Renly for ruining this. “That stupid, self-absorbed prat with his …”

“Stop,” Brienne said, holding up a hand. She looked at Jaime, a tiny bit of hurt breaking through her composed veneer. “So was this all a joke to you?”

“What?” 

“Were you bored and in need of entertainment? Thought that it might be fun to see how the other half lived?”

“What the hell are you on about?” Jaime said, still completely indignant. He was going to fucking murder Renly.

“See,” Brienne continued. “I can’t for the life of me figure out what you had to gain from all this. Renly thinks it was just a lark -- something for you and your rich friends to laugh about. Jaime Lannister spending his Christmas Eve slumming it with the smallfolk.”

“Renly Baratheon knows fuck all about anything!” Jaime cried.

“Then why weren’t you just honest with me?”

“I didn’t lie,” Jaime insisted sullenly. 

“You said that Renly sent you.”

“I let you believe what you wanted to believe.” His back was up now. How dare she believe Renly over him. He was the one who bloody well helped out last night when Renly couldn’t be fucking bothered to even show up. What the hell had he done to deserve such censure? 

“Oh, what I wanted to believe?” Brienne said incredulously. “You didn’t tell me the truth for my sake, then?” Her colour was high, her eyes snapping. “How magnanimous of you.”

“It was just easier.”

“Easier, was it? Yes, I suppose it would have been quite difficult to have said, ‘Sorry, Renly didn’t actually send me; but it looks like you could use help, and I’d like to stay.’” She shook her head in mock sympathy. “Gosh, I see now what a complicated predicament that must have put you in.”

Jaime sighed, changing tactics. “All right. Look, Brienne. I know I came off as an asshole, but I can explain.”

Brienne winced and closed her eyes. This was all too familiar. Much too familiar. She inhaled deeply and then looked back at Jaime. “Yes. I’m sure you can, Jaime,” she said softly. “I’m sure you have many good reasons for not telling me who you are, or why you were willing to let me believe that Renly sent you, or why you are standing here in my crappy flat when the Lannisters are surely having some opulent Christmas get-together across town, or why you bloody well kissed me. Only, you see --it’s Christmas, and I’m not really interested in hearing your explanations right now.”

“Damn it, Brienne,” Jaime bit out, still outraged that she thought the worst of him. “I don’t know why you are so upset. You were the one who mistook me for …”

“Stop,” she repeated, her features taking on an expression of tired resolution. “Jaime, this day is difficult enough as it is. I can’t ...” She looked at him, a defeated dullness in those blue, blue eyes. “Look, thank you for your help last night. And thank you for bringing the girls presents, but I think it’s best now if you just go.” 

“Brienne, you can't be serious. You’re blowing all of this out of proportion. Yes, maybe I should have said something earlier, but I…”

“Please.” Her voice was firm, her eyes dull.

“Brienne.” He looked at her intently, willing her to read his sincerity.

She swallowed. “If you have any consideration for me at all, please just go.”

“But I…” he tried desperately.

“Christ, Jaime. Don’t do this. Don’t try to make …” She broke off, her eyes tearing up, despite her Herculean effort to hold it all together. “Please just go.” Her voice cracked roughly, and Jaime felt a stabbing pain in his chest. 

Shit.

He closed his eyes, nodded once, and left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick holiday shout-out to you, dear readers. Thank you for spending a little of your time with me. 💖


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where our two intrepid heroes realise that, while Christmas may not be all that it’s cracked up to be, there can sometimes be magic when one least expects it.

After Jaime left, Brienne sat at the kitchen table, staring down at the burnt imprint that the kettle had made when she had accidently set it down on the battered wood two years prior in a moment of forgetfulness.

She was bone tired -- physically and emotionally drained.

Of course, the whole thing with Jaime hadn’t been serious. Of course not. She had been stupid to even think that it might be. Things like that -- beautiful men interested in her -- beautiful men kissing her -- didn’t happen to Brienne Tarth.

Damn. She was usually so much better at protecting herself. But Jaime had come waltzing in, all green eyed and sharp smiled, with his helpfulness and his Christmas gifts and his stupid, kissable mouth, and Brienne had forgotten herself, hadn’t she? God, it was enough to make her break down and cry. Which she wouldn’t bloody do, even though her heart felt raw and cracked -- and she missed her dad and her family and the time before, when Christmas didn’t hurt so much.

She put her head down on the table, her index finger slowly tracing along the pattern of the burn.

“Brienne?”

Brienne sat up quickly, rubbing her face and pasting on a false smile.

Sansa and Arya hovered in the doorway.

“Where’s Jaime?” Arya asked, looking around the empty room.

“He had to go,” Brienne said hoarsely, breathing in deeply to compose herself.

“And he didn’t say goodbye?” Arya’s voice was suspicious.

“I … uh. I asked him to leave,” Brienne admitted.

“Oh, Brienne, why?” Sansa said, at the same time Arya cried, “What’d the fucker do?”

Sighing, Brienne got up to put the kettle on, doing her best to explain to the girls what had just transpired (judiciously editing the details of the kiss). Somehow, in the retelling, Brienne managed to keep the hurt from her voice and bury the devastation under a crisp, businesslike facade.

“I just didn’t want to have to deal with untruths and bad feelings on Christmas, so I asked him to leave,” Brienne said briskly, bringing her story to a close. “I did make sure to thank him for the gifts and for his help before he left, though. So it’s all good.”

“Oh, Brienne. I’m sorry,” Sansa said frowning. She fingered her necklace. “I wonder if I should give this back.”

“No, no. I think you’re fine,” Brienne hurriedly replied. “I think he wanted you to have it.”

“But I don’t want it, if he was only trying to be mean,” Sansa protested.

“He wasn’t trying to be mean,” Arya said, her voice vehement.

Brienne turned to her surprised. “No, Arya,” she soothed. “I don’t think he was trying to be mean when he gave you the gifts. Only you see, he wasn’t completely honest with me. And Renly says that Jaime’s family is pretty bad news. Apparently the Lannisters have quite a reputation.”

“I don’t care about reputations,” Arya said indignantly. “Jaime helped. He did good. That makes him all right in my book. Besides, who cares who his family is? We can’t choose our families. Look at Theon. We don’t judge him because his father is a dusty, old cunt.”

“Arya!” Sansa exclaimed. She bit her lip, looking contemplative. “She is right, though, Bri. Jaime was really good with the residents of the shelter. They loved him -- I think because he treated them like people and not charity cases. And he looked really happy chatting with them. I don’t know for sure, but I don’t get the feeling that Jaime has many happy moments in his life, regardless of how rich his family is.”

“Yes, but according to Renly, Jaime’s done some pretty awful things in his past,” Brienne explained carefully. “Apparently there was a woman whom he used to date, and he treated her rather badly.”

“Break-ups are always complicated,” Arya cut in. “Think about the stories Hyle bloody Cunt probably tells about you.”

“Hunt,” Brienne corrected tiredly. “His last name, Arya, as you well know, is Hunt.”

“Whatever,” Arya waved away Brienne’s interjection. “Besides Renly’s one to judge. From what I’ve heard, he goes through lovers like Sansa goes through lemon cakes.”

“Hey!” Sansa cried outraged.

However, Arya just shook her head and glared scathingly at her sister. “I’m not wrong.”

She turned back to Brienne. “At the very least, get Jaime’s side of the story before you judge.”

Brienne looked at Arya skeptically. “Are you sure your defense of Jaime is not just the bicycle talking?”

Arya shot Brienne a withering look. “Please. Do you think that all you need is a fucking bicycle to get into my good graces? If I thought Jaime was the vicious bastard you think he is, I’d kill him in his sleep and take all his stuff.”

“Brienne,” Sansa broke-in gently. “Do you think that maybe you are pushing Jaime away because, after Ron, you are afraid of getting hurt?”

“Sansa,” Brienne insisted, her voice strained. “Jaime lied.”

“Yes, and that’s not OK. However, it sounds to me like he was trying to explain and apologise, and you just didn’t want to hear it.”

“But why would he lie? What reason could he possibly have to lie?”

“Maybe he was afraid too,” Sansa hazarded. “Maybe he knew what you would think of him, if you knew who he really was.”

“Or maybe it was all a big, awful joke, and I was the punchline,” Brienne said harshly.

“Maybe so,” Sansa admitted. “However, you won’t know unless you let him explain.”

Brienne sighed and looked to Arya for confirmation.

Arya shrugged. “I think he’s all right,” she said flatly. “And that’s saying a lot because I hate everyone.”

Brienne smiled, looking at the girls fondly. “Remind me to call your mother tomorrow and let her know that she has raised two incredible, young women who, I have no doubt, will someday rule the entire kingdom.”

"God help us all," Sansa smiled.

........................................................................................................................................................................................................

Jaime slumped into his flat, tossing his keys on the foyer table and staggering towards the couch. He could barely bring himself to think about what had just happened. Of course he had fucked it up. He always fucked everything up. And somehow, without meaning to, he had hurt Brienne in the process. He shuddered, picturing her defeated expression, her tired, flat eyes. He had done that. He had done that to her because he just couldn’t be honest and forthright for once in his goddamn life.

Ah well. It was probably for the best. What had he been thinking going after Brienne in the first place? He must have been insane. They were complete opposites. She would never fit into his world, with her honesty and goodness and lovely eyes. Cersei would eviscerate her, and Tywin -- Jaime shuddered to think what Tywin would do, if Jaime ever had the balls to bring Brienne to a Lannister family function. No, his family was hateful. Jaime was hateful. And, when it came down to it, relationships were hateful too. Completely soul-sucking. No, Brienne had done him a real favour throwing him out on his ear.

At least he had managed to kiss her before she had sent him packing. And God, what a kiss it had been! Jaime felt himself stir slightly at the memory. He had taken some pretty big liberties there in Brienne’s kitchen. It wasn’t like him at all to be so aggressive. Yet, in the moment, he just couldn’t help himself. It was like the woman had some sort of mad, magnetic pull over him; and his body had responded. Yes, there in Brienne’s kitchen, below the bloody mistletoe that definitely wasn’t holly, his body had bloody well responded and then some.

Jaime’s landline was flashing, the red light taunting. Shit. It was Christmas. Who would have called? Cersei? No, after all of the evil things he had said to her at the party, she wouldn’t be speaking to him for a very long time.

More than likely it was his father -- probably with some directive to stop sulking and make-up with his sister immediately. Or maybe the old man was simply calling to wish Jaime a Happy Christmas. Miracles were known to happen, as Brienne had mentioned just the other night.

Shit. Brienne.

Wait ... Brienne?

Could it possibly be? Perhaps she had forgiven him. Perhaps she was calling to ask him back -- to give him another chance. Maybe she had been overwhelmed by the kiss too and was calling him because she wanted to do it again. Stranger things had been known to happen.

But, no -- how would she have his number? He was being stupid again. So stupid.

No, no -- it was Tywin. It had to be Tywin. Fuck. Jaime had better deal with it before he angered his father even more.

Sighing in exhaustion and disappointment, Jaime fumbled for the telephone, typing in his code to access the message.

“Jaime…”

Jaime blanched, almost dropping the receiver in shock.

“Brother, I’m … God, I don’t know what to say. How’s that for fucking irony? Me -- speechless.” Tyrion’s voice was scratchy -- lower than Jaime remembered it being.

“You’re probably angry that I left. I’m… uh, well hell, Jaime. I’m sorry for running off without telling you. I was afraid that if I told you, you would convince me to stay. And I couldn’t stay, Jaime. I couldn’t stay or I wouldn’t survive. I wouldn’t survive them. But fuck all, I was wrong to just leave without a word. I’ve been beating myself up about it -- which is why I haven’t been able to bring myself to contact you before now.”

The message paused, and Jaime feared for a moment that Tyrion had rung off.

“Look, brother,” the message started again. “We both know that I am a certifiable asshole and am not likely to change anytime soon. But I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I do miss you. I really do, more than I thought I ever would.” Tyrion laughed at that, and Jaime felt a lump in his throat the size and shape of his heart. “I miss your stupidly handsome face and your absolute inabil…” This time the message did cut off.

Shit! Tears clouding his eyes, Jaime fumbled to advance the next message.

“Sorry. The damn machine cut me off. Listen, Jaime. I listened to your messages -- all twenty-six of them.” Tyrion laughed again, and Jaime closed his eyes, the longing for his brother too acute to fully process.

“Brienne sounds remarkable. You’d be a fool not to try for something with her. I know you feel yourself unworthy; but, Jaime, don’t listen to that voice in your head. I know that voice. I have it too, and it sounds suspiciously like Father, who we all know is a pompous blowhard with all the warmth and parenting skills of a white walker. Seriously, don’t listen to it Jaime. You are a good man, and you have a great deal to offer. And from everything you’ve said, Brienne sees this. You just need to h…”

“Argh!” Jaime cried, furiously pushing buttons to get to the next message.

“Sorry again.” Tyrion laughed. “Your twenty-six messages don’t seem so overly dramatic now. OK, I’ll try to keep this short. Someday I’ll tell you the story of my escape from King’s Landing. For now, just know that it has a happy ending -- or a happier ending, at least. And that’s all I want for you too, brother. A happier ending. You deserve love, Jaime. You deserve happiness. I had to leave in order to see that I deserved those things; but I’m hoping that you can see it for yourself now, without having to flee the country in the dead of night. You have a great deal to offer, even if you don't believe it. Look, Jaime … I guess what I’m trying to say, very badly it seems -- is that, if you want Brienne, go and get her, brother. Go and fucking get her. ”

The message clicked off, and Jaime pushed the button. However there were no further messages.

He felt wetness on his cheeks and reached up to swipe at the tears that had fallen without him even noticing. Fucking Tyrion! God, he loved the selfish, little asshole.

Jaime wanted to laugh. To cry in relief. Of course, Tyrion had escaped. Of course he had.

Jaime’s mind flashed back to their childhood. As difficult as it had been for Jaime, it had been a hundred times worse for Tyrion. The unwanted child. The dwarf. The disappointment. Tywin and Cersei had always done their absolute best to make Tyrion feel like he wasn’t wanted -- that he didn’t belong. And Jaime … well, Jaime had tried to make it easier for his little brother. However, more times that not, Jaime had taken his twin’s side, afraid of Cersei’s ire and his father’s disapproval.

Poor Tyrion. How horrible it must have been for him. Jaime hadn’t let himself think about it, afraid to truly feel the guilt of his silent complicity. But he did now. He did now. He sat, looking out at the darkening sky and let his heart break for his little brother.

Finally, when the sun had completely gone down, and the lights of King’s Landing flickered on, Jaime dried his eyes and took a deep breath. Right. Things had to change. Now.

Tyrion had told him to fight for Brienne -- to go and get her; and that was what he was going to do. He would apologise. Make her see that he hadn’t done anything maliciously. That, maybe he wasn’t the best person in the world, but he was willing to try. He was willing to try very hard.

He set about tidying himself up. However, in the middle of changing his shirt, he heard his doorbell ring.

That was strange. The doorman usually called before he let anyone up.

Shit. It must be Tywin. The last thing Jaime needed at the moment was a confrontation with his father.

Smoothing down his black button-up, Jaime went to answer the door, ready to do battle.

However, when the door opened, he was met with the incongruous image of Brienne, a bit wet and rumpled, holding two large shopping bags and standing on his doorstep.

“Hi … um … I bring glad tidings and a rather shameful apology,” she said, nervously biting her lip.

“What?” Jaime stared at her uncomprehendingly.

She was wearing an enormous wool coat and a bright blue scarf, her hair dusted with melting snow; the powdery whiteness blending in with her own pale strands. She shook her head, and a drop of water fell onto her cheek and slid slowly down her face.

It took all of Jaime’s strength not to reach out and catch it with his fingers.

Brienne took a deep breath, steadying herself, before looking up to meet him face-on. “I’m so sorry, Jaime. I overreacted -- badly. I thought you were mocking me -- pretending to care as a big joke that you’d share with all of your rich friends.” Her voice was rough, as if she had been crying. “You see, I’m quite sensitive about lying and mocking.” She smiled a sheepish smile. “And I reacted without giving you a chance to explain. That was wrong of me.”

“What?” Apparently it was the only word left in his vocabulary. He gaped at her.

Brienne winced at his monosyllabic response but barreled on, her voice increasing in pace and volume as she continued. “And even if it did start out as a joke, you did some real good at that shelter and some real good with my friends. And I just want you to know that I am grateful for it. And I am sorry that I was so quick to judge. I wish I could blame it on Christmas and on me just being out of sorts. But, in reality, I have a very difficult time trusting people. It’s something you should know about me before you decide whether or not you want to know me better. I can be just awful, as you’ve discovered firsthand. But, when I’m wrong, I will always, always admit it. And, moving forward, I always try to do better …” She broke off, looking at him anxiously.

“Look, I know I have no right to ask after turning you out of my home on Christmas Day, of all days, but I brought a curry and some truly terrible gin.” She held up one of her massive shopping bags. “I thought maybe we could -- um ...well, we could perhaps _**not**_ celebrate Christmas together. That is, if you’re up for it and if you can ... um, find it in your heart to forgive me…possibly?”

He stood there, shell shocked. Never in a million years had he expected her to come to him. To apologise to him. Hell, he was the one who had lied -- or at least, omitted the truth. He was the one who had invaded her life under false pretenses. He was the one with the shitty reputation that should -- yes, very well should scare people off. Yet, here she was standing at his door apologising for misjudging him. Here she was promising to do better. He didn’t even have to go and get her. She had come to him. She had goddamn come to him!

Brienne shifted nervously on his doorstep, as if she were ready to flee at any moment; and Jaime was suddenly shaken out of his reverie. He stepped back and pulled the door open. “Come in,” he said simply.

Grabbing her massive shopping bags in an awkward embrace, Brienne entered, letting out a low whistle as she looked around Jaime’s flat.

“Holy hell,” she breathed out, scanning the pristine wood floors; the intricate, plaster moldings; the wall of windows; the designer Christmas tree. “So this is how the other half lives.”

Jaime grimaced. “About that…” He gestured for her to put down her bags and take a seat on the leather couch. “I owe you an apology of my own.”

Brienne raised a bag as if to brush the idea away.

“No, no, I do. Only, let me get you a drink before I prostrate myself before your mercy.”

Despite her best effort to control it, a blush stained Brienne’s cheeks. She cleared her throat nervously.

“Did you say that you brought gin?” Jaime inquired, ignoring her discomfort.

“Well, they call it gin on the label,” Brienne said ruefully. “Jury’s still out, though.” She rifled in one of her bags and pulled out a bottle of cheap gin and a bag of limes.

“Cheers,” Jaime said, taking her proffered offering. “I’ll be right back.”

 _“Damn, the boy was rich,”_ Brienne thought, taking off her coat and scarf and once more looking around the room -- at the sleek, minimalist furniture and the expensive art on the walls. Again she had to tamp down her instinct to cut and run. This was far beyond anything in her experience. Unsettled with anxiety, she rose to go look out of the windows.

The view was something else entirely. Brienne gazed out at the peaceful, electric glow: King’s Landing in all of its beauty and glory. From up here one would never think that some of its residents were starving … homeless … sick. From up here, the city looked warm and inviting, not cold and ravenous. This was the city in which Jaime lived. This was the city he saw everyday.

“It’s the best feature of the flat,” Jaime said, coming in from what Brienne assumed was the kitchen, two glasses in hand.

“It’s beautiful,” Brienne agreed.

“Shall we …” Jaime gestured to the couch.

“Yes, yes,” Brienne hastily replied, her nerves still buzzing. “We shall.” She chose a seat on the couch far away from Jaime and anxiously gulped her drink.

“God, that’s bad,” she said wincing. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to poison you. I promise.”

Jaime laughed and, bracing himself, took his own sip. “It would have been well within your rights, if you had.” He shook his head to clear the taste.

“Brienne,” he began, exhaling nervously. “Look, I am really, truly sorry for not being honest with you. You were right. I should have just told you that Renly hadn’t sent me. It would have been so easy.” He looked at her ruefully. “But I never seem to take the easy way when it comes to anything. It’s kind of my thing, actually.” He gave her a sheepish smile.

“Why did you?” Brienne asked, truly curious. “Make me believe that Renly had sent you to help?”

“I don’t know,” Jaime explained. “I wasn’t planning on staying or helping. I just carried a box in for Pod. And then you acted as if you were expecting me. And you were so happy to see me and so grateful for the help. And I had just come from an incredibly nasty fight with my sister who basically called me useless. And you seemed to need me. To want me. Told me you did, anyway. And I…” he stopped, giving her an embarrassed smile. “Well, it just felt good to be needed, I guess.”

Brienne frowned. “But I still would have needed you, wanted you, regardless of if Renly had sent you or not.”

“I realise that now,” Jaime said. “But I was afraid that, if I told you who I was, you would call Renly. And as you well know, Renly doesn’t think much of me.”

“I’d like to think I can make up my own mind about people,” Brienne said quietly.

“Ah, but the Lannister reputation is infamous,” Jaime quipped, frowning. “ _My_ reputation is infamous.”

“Is it grounded in truth?” Brienne looked at him searchingly.

Jaime’s chin went up, but he took a deep breath and worked to lower it. That’s what had thrown him into this mess the first time. “Some of it is.” He took another drink, swallowing the harsh liquid, his eyes slightly watering. “Look, Brienne. You should know that I haven’t always been a good person.”

“None of us has.”

“Well, I find that pretty difficult to believe coming from you,” Jaime replied. “But, in my case, it’s true. I’ve done things -- said things that I’m not proud of.” He pressed his lips together. “I still do things I’m not proud of. Yesterday being case and point.”

Brienne nodded softly.

“Renly was right to be protective,” Jaime admitted. “He’s one to talk, but he was right to be protective.”

“So then,” Brienne said quietly. “Are you saying that I shouldn’t be here? With you? That you’re something that I should protect myself against?”

“No,” Jaime said. “You don’t need to protect yourself from me.” He fell quiet for a few long moments. “Although, maybe I should protect myself from you.”

“I told you that I’m initially untrusting but that I always try to do better moving forward,” Brienne rushed to explain.

“I wasn’t talking about that,” Jaime said softly.

“Then what would you need to protect yourself from?”

However, Jaime simply looked at her, his eyes soft. Finally, he shook his head and cleared his throat. “All right. Now that the apology part of the evening has come to a close, I have something for you.”

“Is it drinkable alcohol?” Brienne joked.

“No, it’s a Christmas gift. Er … an un-Christmas gift, rather.”

“Jaime. You didn’t have to …”

“Stop. I wanted to.” He rose and walked to a beautifully crafted, wooden cabinet. He opened a drawer, pulling out a slip of paper.

“I apologise for not wrapping it,” he said. “However, knowing how you feel about Christmas, I didn’t think you would mind.” He held it out to her.

Brienne took the paper and unfolded it. It was a cheque made out to the shelter with an exorbitant amount of zeros after the number.

She caught her breath. “Jaime, this is too much,” she whispered. Blinking to hold the tears at bay, she looked at the cheque, the numbers swimming before her eyes.

“Actually, it’s not,” Jaime replied. “I’m embarrassed to admit how incredibly self-absorbed and selfish I’ve been most of my life. I’ve been so focused on my own comforts, I’ve never really stopped to consider anyone else. Speaking to those men last night, made me reevaluate a few things. Besides, what would I do with the blasted money? Take yet another ridiculous trip to Dorne? Buy yet another car?”

Brienne gave a choked laugh, wiping her eyes. “You really are much too rich for your own good.” She looked around the apartment again, shaking her head. “I don’t think it’s all that healthy, really.”

Jaime smiled. “You may be right. Perhaps I need someone to keep me grounded. Call me out on my bullshit from time to time. Keep the Lannister ego in check.”

Brienne raised a corner of her mouth in a smirk. “I fear that would be an impossible feat.”

She looked at him intently. “Thank you.”

Jaime glanced down, suddenly embarrassed. Clearing his throat, he reached for his gin, raising the glass in a toast. “Happy un-Christmas.”

“Happy un-Christmas,” Brienne replied, holding up her own glass to clink against his. She took a sip, wincing at the harsh, astringent burn. “God, it doesn’t get any better, does it?” And then, sitting up suddenly, “Oh, I have something for you too.”

She set down her glass in order to rifle around in one of her enormous shopping bags. “Ah, here it is.”

She shifted forward and slowly pulled out a long, metal object adorned with a red ribbon.

Jaime stilled, his jaw dropping open.

“It’s nothing fancy,” she warned. “Just an old tournament sword I trained with when I was learning how to handle the longsword.” Balancing the blade on the flat of her hand, she held the sword out to him, pommel first.

Jaime stared at her in awe. Carefully he took the sword by the hilt, rotating it slowly, watching the light catch against its edges. He adjusted his grip, feeling the weight of it.

“It’s seen better days, I’m afraid. I’m actually a little embarrassed to gift it, but Arya thought that you’d appreciate it.”

“This is your sword?” Jaime asked, his voice cracking on the word “your.”

“Well, I didn’t have time to actually shop for anything new,” she explained.

“Your sword? You fought with it?”

Brienne blushed, the colour staining her neck and cheeks. “Well ‘fought’ is a little hyperbolic. I used it to train. I fenced for years in secondary school and university. And I got it into my head one year to experiment with different weapons.” She gave him a sheepish look, scrunching up her nose. “It’s a weird gift. Like I said, Arya…”

“This...” he cut her off. “This is the best un-Christmas gift I have ever received.” He exhaled shakily, his gaze fixed on the glinting silver blade.

Brienne grinned. “I’d bet good money that it’s the only un-Christmas gift that you’ve ever received.”

Jaime pulled his eyes away from the sword to look at her intently. “Brienne,” he said slowly, carefully forming each word. “This is the best gift I’ve ever received. Full stop.”

“Well, then,” she sputtered, her cheeks flushing a mottled scarlet. “Good. That’s ... I’m glad.”

“Does it have a name?”

“It’s just an old tourney sword, Jaime,” she said, shrugging.

“Every sword should have a name.” He rotated his wrist, watching as the blade flashed in the golden glow of the Christmas tree. “Arthur Dayne’s sword was called Dawn.” He looked up at Brienne. “This one needs a name too.”

“I’ll leave it up to you then. It’s yours.”

Solemnly, he slashed the air in front of him, watching as the blade cut through the light. Already it felt like a part of him -- an extension of his arm -- an extension of the arm of that lonely, nine-year-old boy who had wished against all hope that he would grow up to be something good and honourable. What had happened to that boy? How had he ended up this bitter, cynical, selfish excuse for a man? Where had it all gone so wrong?

Jaime glanced at the sword shining in his hand. Maybe it didn’t have to go so wrong, after all. Tyrion had escaped. Perhaps Jaime could too. Yes, maybe, just maybe, it could all go right for a change.

He looked over at Brienne who was gazing at him with a soft smile. Jaime felt something in his chest swell, pushing at his throat and rib cage, stuttering his breath in his lungs.

Tightening his grip on the sword’s hilt, Jaime brought the flat of the blade up to rest against his forehead. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Storm, I think,” he said finally, after a few moments of silent contemplation. He looked up to meet Brienne’s eyes.

Brienne bit her lip but met his gaze, the sheen of water in her own eyes reflecting the light back to him. She nodded once.

“Yes,” Jaime affirmed, reverently placing the sword down on the coffee table and turning to face her. “Definitely Storm.” His heart beating wildly, Jaime reached out and cupped the side of Brienne’s face in his hand, thumbing the line of her jaw softly.

“Thank you,” he rasped. It was suddenly difficult to talk.

“You’re very welcome,” Brienne breathed. “And, I am really very sorry for earlier. I just …”

“I am too,” Jaime cut her off. He tightened his fingers in her hair.

“It’s too bad that your flat has a distinct lack of holly,” Brienne tried to quip, but her voice came out far too husky for the joke to land.

Jaime’s eyes darkened. “It was bloody mistletoe, woman.”

She opened her lips to protest but was cut off by the press of Jaime’s mouth. This time the kiss was slow and deliberate, gently building.

Taking his time, Jaime brushed his mouth over hers, sending a thin buzz of electricity down his spine and causing his breath to catch in his throat and crackle across his chest. Involuntarily, he made a choked noise in the back of his throat, and Brienne’s eyes popped open. Such a clear and intense shade of blue. Men would fight battles for that shade of blue. Men would swear vows for it.

“Brienne, I …” he mumbled. But the rest of what he had to say was lost, as Brienne fisted a hand in his shirt and pulled him into her.

Jaime’s last, coherent thought, before his brain shut off completely and he lost himself in the heady swirl of Brienne, was that maybe he didn’t hate the holidays so much after all. However, he would have to evaluate that statement at a later time. Right now he had other things to do.

Gently, he pushed her back onto the couch and crawled up her body to deepen the kiss -- Brienne’s mouth tasting of peppermint lip balm and truly terrible gin and the promise of many, many un-Christmases to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Well that’s that, then. And only 23,000 words more than I initially imagined, lol. 
> 
> So -- come, curse me or kiss me or send me some feedback. Something. : ) 
> 
> Thanks so much to all of you who read, left kudos, and commented. You are a wonderful gift. And here’s hoping that 2020 will be a not-so-crappy year for us all. God knows we could use it. 
> 
> All the best, Hildy B
> 
> PS: So for the holidays, I did a .... well, I’m not really sure what I’ve done. Something ridiculously stupid and ill-advised, if we are going by past history. I’m going to put it in a comment below this chapter, so you can easily avoid the outright lunacy. Read at your own risk.


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